Into the Fold
by Neoinean
Summary: Plothole filler, season one: how we get from The Gathering to Family Tree.
1. Fateful Reunion

Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie. This season takes place 1997-1998

Summary: I know it's been done. A lot. But the Richie muse forced me into it! My take on the sequence of events between The Gathering and Family Tree.

Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites? I'd be off making lots and lots of money! But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.

* * *

Duncan MacLeod was sitting at behind the wheel of his T-bird on an all-too-warm September day at what had to be the longest stoplight in all of Seacouver, and he was fuming. He had just left Johnson's Antiques, without the Greek sculpture that Johnson himself claimed to have waiting for him. He said that a loyal customer offered him top dollar and he couldn't refuse her. That piece was the fifth and final of a set that Duncan had been trying to collect for the past two years. Individually, each sculpture wasn't worth very much (as far as priceless antiques went), but the complete set would have fetched untold gains at the auction next month.

Duncan wasn't upset because of the money. It was the principle of the thing. Two years he spent trying to track down the remaining four pieces, acquiring three of them along the way. He had finally managed to arrange, through a series of legal (more or less) dealings to have the fifth and final piece shipped to him from a private collector in Cairo. Unfortunately for him, the shipping company dropped the package off at the wrong Seacouver antique store (because apparently it was easy to confuse 'Johnson's' with 'MacLeod and Noel').

After much hassle and many hours on hold Duncan tracked the package through the shipping company to Johnson's Antiques. He immediately phoned Mr. Johnson and told him of the shipping snafu and asked him to hold on to the piece for him. Mr. Johnson agreed, and Duncan had foolishly decided that he could wait until the following morning to pick it up. The following morning turned into the following afternoon as he was forced to work the store for Tessa, who woke up with a cold that he suspected was the beginnings of the flu, and by the time he arrived at Johnson's antiques he discovered that Mr. Johnson had already sold the piece. Now instead of a neatly packaged Greek sculpture in his back seat, Duncan MacLeod had the photocopy of a credit card receipt folded in his wallet, the prospect of negotiating with a private buyer ranking just above 'wrestle live alligators' on his wish list for the day.

He had opted to take the shortcut through the less affable section of town because it involved just the one traffic light instead of the three on his usual route. Had he realized that the light would take this long he would have reconsidered that decision. By the time the light finally turned green Duncan had gotten to wondering if some technologically advanced criminal had tweaked the timing on the light cycle just a bit to aid him in his endeavors.

Exasperated and relieved that the light had finally changed, Duncan hit the clutch and shifted back into gear. He was just about to accelerate when he had to slam on the brake again. A black and green blur that Duncan surmised was a human being, wearing what had to be the ugliest gang color scheme he'd ever seen, suddenly darted out in front of his car at breakneck speed only to just as promptly disappear down an alleyway. Duncan cursed in Gaelic (a driving luxury he afforded himself only when Tessa wasn't with him) when the sudden stop caused the T-bird to stall out.

"There's one born every minute!" he exclaimed as he made ready to drive off again. He had just stepped on the accelerator again when another blur shot out in front of his car. This blur was loosely identified as a pack of boys, dressed mostly in orange and likely chasing after the original black and green blur that had just passed by. Duncan's day to this point was such that as he restarted his car —_ again — _he was torn between doing absolutely nothing (gangland violence was not something he relished getting involved in) and taking his frustrations out at five to one odds (five to two if you count the first blur, but he couldn't bet on it). He realized that he had plenty of time to think about it as the light had cycled back to red.

All of a sudden though the right tumblers clicked in Duncan's mind — he knew that kid! Duncan had been too preoccupied to notice the pre-immortal buzz for what it was. That black and green blur was Richard Ryan, the kid who broke into his antique store a few weeks ago. With another string of curses from various languages Duncan shifted into gear and ran the red light. He took the next left too fast and his tires squealed in protest. He sped the next few blocks, hoping that he wouldn't suddenly lose track of the pre-immortal presence. He turned down the third left and saw the kid emerge from the alley with the pack beginning to close the gap. Duncan slowed down as he passed the entrance to the alleyway. The kid slowed, unsure of himself, and now the pack was nearly on top of him.

"What do you want, a written invitation?" Duncan called out, his voice thick with impatience. "Get in, quick!"

The kid didn't need to be told twice. He dove head-first over the passenger door and landed in the back seat with a hollow thud. Duncan quickly sped off, leaving a bunch of pissed off gang members in his wake.

After taking a few darting turns, Duncan decided to pull into the parking lot for the playground in Columbus Park. Fortunately there weren't too many people there. He killed the engine and engaged the parking break, then turned around to face his passenger. The kid was still huddled on the floor of the back seat, making sure to keep all body parts out of all possible lines of fire.

"You can come out now, no one's going to shoot at you," Duncan said, staring down at the figure that seemed to more resemble a caged animal rather than a frightened boy.

The boy debated silently for a moment and then eased himself into a sitting position on the back seat. "Thanks, mister." His voice gave the impression that he was not used to expressing a genuine thank-you.

"You're welcome," Duncan replied, his voice carefully neutral. "You mind telling me why those—"

"Oh my God, you're him!" Interrupting, wide-eyed and pale as a ghost, the kid quickly fumbled for the door release. Having found it he shoved the door opened and launched himself out of the car.

Duncan cursed yet again. Apparently the boy had recognized him, too.

"Wait!" Duncan called after him as the boy began to run. Suddenly he was reminded of his promise to Connor; that he would look after the boy. He knew that if he let him get away now he would have blown his last chance to make good on his word. Duncan started to run after him. "_Wait!_"

Perhaps it was desperation, perhaps anger tinged with frustration, but something about Duncan's tone would have made even the most hardhearted criminal stop in his tracks. Thus it was more than enough to stop the boy, who seemed to freeze like his life dependent on the cessation of movement. Duncan smiled to himself, having effectively pulled off his best imitation of Connor to date. He walked up to the kid, determined to figure out exactly why he was tempting fate with entrance to the game.

Richie turned around slowly when he heard Duncan approach. "Look, mister, I'm sorry about the store." His voice was steady, but quite a bit higher pitched than Duncan remembered it from their conversation in the police station. And his hands were trembling slightly. "I'll pay for the window and the alarm somehow. Just give me the chance."

Duncan heard what the boy said, but not the actual words. He was too busy studying the unbridled fear in those ice blue eyes. The knowledge that he was the cause of such fear was unsettling. Unfortunately his silence — along with a facial expression that made Richie feel like a bug under glass — didn't help matters any.

"I'm just the kid that was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the overactive imagination, remember?" Richie stammered hastily, effectively bringing Duncan back to the here and now. "Ok, so my curiosity got the best of me, but that's no reason to—"

"Enough!" Duncan firmly (but not harshly) attempted to stop the babbling.

The boy recoiled as if slapped and Duncan noticed his lower lip began to tremble before he bit it for a moment to keep it steady. "What do you want from me?" he asked in a tone that led Duncan to believe, despite all the bravado he remembered the kid possessing, that he was not above begging for his life. Duncan was searching for the best calming thing to say to him when he noticed the stain on the boy's jacket.

Blood.

Duncan's eyes went wide and he made an abortive move forward. The kid flinched so he added, "you've got blood, there." Funny, it hadn't sounded quite so ridiculous in his head.

Richie's already too-pale expression washed over to ashen. "Jesus, you want my blood?" he asked, fearfully incredulous, backpedaling. "What are you, some sort of vampire?"

"You're hurt!" Duncan exclaimed, trying his best to sound patient and non-intimidating.

The kid backed up again and Duncan stepped forward to match his distance. At his fearfully questioning gaze Duncan gestured towards the boy's midsection. The kid inspected his jacket carefully, putting his hand where he saw the stain. It came away bloody.

"I guess Romeo stuck me harder than I thought," he said, sounding slightly awed as he stared at the blood on his hands. Then all of a sudden he wobbled on his legs and that was all the warning Duncan got before the kid suddenly collapsed in a heap. An immortal's reflexes were all that allowed Duncan to catch him before his upper body hit the ground.

"Don't…" he managed to beg before passing out in Duncan's arms.

"Great," Duncan groaned sarcastically as he eased the boy to the ground. "He's seen that I'm immortal but thinks I'm a vampire," he muttered sarcastically as he unzipped the jacket, then lifted the boy's shirt to get a better look at the wound. "And now he's dying," Duncan deadpanned. "Wonderful"

Duncan gave up and swore in English this time as he grabbed the bandana from Richie's head and pressed it onto the wound. He knew that the kid needed medical attention fast or else he'd bleed to death.

Knowing that the T-bird was the fastest way to get the kid to the hospital, Duncan scooped him up and carried him back to the car. He put him in the front seat and hurried over to the driver side. He started the engine, shifted into gear, and completed the drive to the hospital one-handed, his right hand serving to both keep pressure on the wound and monitor Richie's pulse: it was fast and faint, but relatively constant.

It started to bottom out as Duncan pulled into the emergency section of the hospital parking lot and right up to the front doors. He didn't bother to turn his car off as he grabbed the boy and jumped over the doors on the passenger side. He carried him in through the ambulance entrance.

"I need some help here!"

Two EMTs suddenly swarmed him. "What happened?" the first asked, wheeling a gurney.

Duncan put the boy down, but kept his hand on the soaked bandana that covered the wound. "I don't know," he lied, "the kid just collapsed right in front of me. I think he's been stabbed."

"Heart rate's forty-eight, BP's ninety-two over sixty-four and falling fast," the second EMT rattled off, looking up from his instruments.

"Looks like he's in shock," the first answered. "Send him to trauma two and page Dr. Worthington."

"Blood type?" the second asked.

"I don't know," Duncan answered, feeling helpless as he a nurse replaced his hold on the bandana with a wad of triage gauze.

"Prep some O-negative and prepare to cross-type him!" The EMTs began quickly wheeling the gurney down the hallway.

"Thank you, Sir. We'll take it from here," said the nurse as they rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

Duncan just stood there for several seconds, staring blankly ahead. This was not the reunion he'd planned on when Connor told him to keep an eye on the boy. _That was a fine eye, MacLeod_.

Duncan found a payphone and called Tessa, hating to have to disturb her rest, and told her to bring a change of clothes to the hospital. After quickly reassuring her that he had been helping an accident victim and was now waiting to hear on his condition, Duncan hung up the phone and walked back to the ER waiting area, fastening his coat to hide the bloodstains on his shirt.

It was only then that he remembered that he left the T-Bird running. Duncan went back outside only to find it missing. _Great_._ Perfect_. _Wonderful._

Duncan went back inside the waiting room and sat in one of the morbidly uncomfortable standard issue plastic chairs, offering a few silent prayers heavenward that the boy would be alright. He was too young to enter the game. Immortals that young never finished developing. He'd never be big enough and he'd never be strong enough. Not that some immortals didn't make the lack of such weapons work for them. Look at Connor, or even Amanda. Still, with the gathering so close at hand his odds of survival were vastly increased by every extra year of mortal life.

Another thought, one that he only gave passing credit to, was that if the kid were to become immortal right now Duncan was almost certain that he wouldn't be able to teach him. The most important thing in teacher-student rapport is trust, and that kid looked like he wouldn't trust his own mother as far as he could throw her. As much as some part of him ached to be given a chance with the boy, he knew that realistically he would be a poor choice for a teacher if the kid were to enter the game tonight. Richie would need someone he could have an easier time identifying with, someone closer to his own level that would by association be easier for him to trust. Unfortunately, Duncan didn't have that many immortal friends who fit the bill that he could trust enough to ask.

At the top of that list Duncan thought of Rebecca. She had more patience for the younger generation (whichever generation that might be at the time) than any other immortal he'd ever met, with the possible exception of Darius; but Rebecca had her own life and a husband she loved and he couldn't saddle her with a student knowing that she would accept without question. That left only one other option.

Connor.

Duncan hated the prospect of having to resort to asking his own teacher, given that he felt a strange sense of possessiveness mixed in with his protectiveness towards the boy. No, the only acceptable outcome was for the boy to leave the hospital still untouched by the game. Resolved that tonight could _not_ end any other way, Duncan prepared himself for the potentially long wait ahead of him.

Some time later Tessa entered the emergency room carrying a shopping bag. She looked a little better than she had that morning, but Duncan was sure she was still running a bit of a fever.

"Duncan," she called out to him.

Duncan looked up at the sound of her voice and stood to greet her. "Hi, Tess." Tessa leaned in to embrace him but he held his hands up to stop her. "Not a good idea, I'm rather gross." He opened his jacket to show her the bloodstains covering his shirt. At her startled expression he flashed his most charming smile. "Don't worry — none of it's mine." With that he took the bag from her, checking its contents to be sure she brought everything, and turned to leave.

He made it half way to the restrooms before turning back to her. "Oh and if the doctor comes back, I'm waiting for news on Richard Ryan."

"Ryan?" Tessa remembered the name but wasn't able to place it. Then all of a sudden her expression changed to one of indignant surprise. "Isn't that the boy who—"

"Yes it is," Duncan affirmed, cutting her off. "But the kid nearly died in my arms this afternoon, so try and go easy on him." With a smile and a kiss on her cheek, Duncan turned back around and headed into the men's room to change.

When he reemerged a few minutes later, Duncan's feeling of refreshment was chased away by one look at Tessa's expression. With the air of a kid sent to the principal's office, he sat down in the seat next to her and, putting the bag of soiled clothes by his feet, made ready to explain himself.

Tessa addressed him before he got the chance. "Hospital security called, just before I left. They told me to tell you that your car has been impounded for being parked illegally in the ambulance zone." Her tone was clipped, as though she had barely won the war with herself to allow Duncan to explain everything before voicing her own opinions on the matter.

Duncan sighed tiredly. "Well, that's good news at least."

Tessa didn't detect any sarcasm in his voice. "Pardon?"

"I was afraid it might have been stolen."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because I left it running outside the ER."

"You _what!_" Tessa exclaimed loudly enough to garner a few offended glances from the others in the waiting room. Then, lowering her voice: "Duncan MacLeod, how could you have been so careless?"

"Well I was more worried about the kid bleeding to death in my front seat at the time," Duncan defended.

Tessa was all set to argue when all of a sudden her expression changed. "Was he really hurt that badly?"

Duncan reached into the shopping bag and removed his soiled shirt for her to see.

"_Mon Dieu_," she exclaimed softly, concern evident in her voice as she studied the flecked patterns of blood adorning the blue cotton.

"None of this is mine," Duncan reiterated before putting the shirt back into the bag.

"From the beginning," Tessa directed.

"Right," Duncan agreed, trying to decide where and how to begin. "The beginning."

He told her all about the mix-up with Johnson's Antiques and his decision to take the shortcut. Then he mentioned how the boy had darted out in front of his car, chased by five members of what he had dubbed 'the orange gang.' He told her how, even if he hadn't recognized the boy (which he had), seeing the five-against-one odds bothered his Highland code of honor, and that he drove around the block to provide the kid with a getaway car. He left out the incident in the playground and Richie's reaction to recognizing him, instead telling her that the kid passed out from the blood loss in the front seat of the T-bird and that he had driven him straight to the hospital, forgetting to turn his car off in the heat of the emergency.

"What do you think happened to him?" Tessa asked once he was done. "Why was he running?" The anger had left her to be replaced with genuine concern.

"I honestly don't know Tess, he passed out before he could tell me. My best guess is that one of the gang members stabbed him."

"But why?"

Duncan gazed at Tessa's intent expression, only able to respond with a half-hearted shrug and a weak smile.

"What are you going to do?" she asked then.

"Well, he came in here without any identification. I'm guessing the gang stole his wallet. I'm going to wait here, see if there's anything I can do for him." Upon seeing Tessa's quizzical expression he added: "Because he had no ID the hospital wasn't able to contact next of kin. He's just a boy, Tess, someone should be here for him."

Tessa nodded in understanding. "So you'll wait for news. What then?"

Duncan sighed, considering. "Well he's probably in surgery now. No telling how long that will take, or what condition he'll be in after. Someone should be here, in case…"

Tessa's eyes widened in alarm, and the severity of her question forced her voice into a rough whisper. "Duncan, you don't think he could die, do you?"

Once again Duncan was forced to shrug. "I really don't know, Tess."

He left out the part where if the kid did die, then he would wake up in the morgue an immortal, and he felt the need to be there if that happened.

"Do you want me to wait with you?"

Duncan smiled. He loved how compassionate she could be, even in the face of illness, and even towards the punk kid who broke into their store. It was one of the many things he loved about her. "That's ok, Tess. There's really nothing you can do here. Go back to the loft and get some rest, this could be a while."

Briefly she debated arguing the point, but decided against it. Duncan was right, there really was nothing she could do, and she was still feeling ill. Finally she nodded in acquiescence. "Call me the minute you have word," she said as she stood up, grabbing the bag of soiled clothes in the process.

Duncan stood with her. "I will," he promised.

"When you are ready to leave, we'll see about getting your car out of the impound."

"Thanks Tessa." He was referring to more than just her willingness to give him a ride.

Tessa smiled at him and gave him a brief, tender kiss. "I'll be waiting." With that she turned towards the exit, leaving Duncan to return to his seat and wait it out.

After what seemed like an eternity, but really only a few hours later, a relatively young doctor entered the waiting room.

"Is someone here for Richard Ryan?"

Duncan stood. "I am."

"And you are?"

"Duncan MacLeod."

"Ah yes, the Good Samaritan."

"Can we dispense with the pleasantries, doctor?" Duncan asked, annoyed and impatient. "Just tell me how the boy's doing?"

The doctor nodded. Then, taking a brief look around the waiting room and discovering it to be a bit too crowded for his liking, he gestured for MacLeod to follow him. "This way," he said, holding open the door to the emergency room. Once inside, the doctor led them off to one side so they could talk freely.

"The boy's lost a lot of blood," the doctor began. "While the knife missed his vital organs, it did nick one of the arteries that feeds the left kidney. The damage was reparable, and we've given him a transfusion to compensate for the blood loss as well as fluids and a healthy dose of antibiotics." The doctor paused to see if Duncan was following him. "Once the antibiotics have dealt with the possible infection he should recover."

Duncan noticed that there was something off in the doctor's tone of voice. "But?"

The doctor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "But," he admitted, "the kidney was oxygen-starved for an unknown amount of time. While we've since corrected this, we don't know how serious the lasting effects of the oxygen depletion will be."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning we'll be monitoring his kidney function closely. He'll live, but we don't know how much of his kidney function will return."

"Well do you have a guess?" Duncan asked, clearly concerned by this latest development.

"There's really no way to tell. It could recover completely or not at all, or anywhere in between."

Duncan nodded his understanding. "When will you know?"

"We'll be testing the fluids he puts out over the next few days, comparing the possible curve against normal healthy kidney output for a boy his age. We'll have the definitive numbers about four days after he starts producing fluids again."

"That means you'll be keeping him here for about a week," Duncan concluded. It wasn't a question.

"About that, yeah," the doctor admitted. "He's being admitted now."

"Can I see him?"

The doctor was silent a moment, clearly debating. "He's in recovery now, and from there he'll be taken to the ICU. I'm afraid that only next of kin have visitation rights. Now, he'll only be in there until we're sure an infection hasn't set in. After that he'll be moved to a normal room — and you can visit him then." That last part was tacked on quite hastily after the doctor noticed the expression on Duncan's face.

The Highlander only belatedly unclenched his jaw.

"That reminds me," the doctor added, "do you know any next of kin we can contact?"

"No," Duncan admitted. "I've only met him once before. He didn't mention any family."

The doctor nodded. "One more thing. Because of the nature of his injury we were forced to treat it as an attempted homicide. By law we had to notify the authorities."

"And they'll be wanting my statement," Duncan concluded ruefully.

The doctor nodded again, sympathetically.

"Well when they get here, send them to the waiting room. I'm not leaving until I know the boy's family is here."

The doctor looked like he was about to say something, but Duncan didn't give him the chance. He turned around and stalked back to the waiting room. He had to call Tessa.

From the payphone in the waiting room, Duncan relayed what the doctor had told him about the boy's condition. He also told her that he needed to wait at the hospital for the authorities to question him about the incident. Tessa told him that she'd tracked down where they had impounded the T-bird and that she would shower and dress (having previously returned to bed) before coming to get him. Once he was through with the authorities they would pick up the car and then decide what to do from there.

He had just hung up the phone when two plain-clothes detectives entered the waiting room. Duncan recognized one of them as Sergeant Powell.

"Ah, Mr. MacLeod," said Powell, approaching him. "They tell me you're the one who brought in Ryan."

Duncan eyed him warily. There was something about the detective that set his teeth on edge. "That's right."

"This is Detective Anderson," said Powell, introducing the other detective. "Would you please follow us downtown?" It wasn't a request.

"Firstly," Duncan began, trying to remain patient, "my car's been impounded, so I can't 'follow you' anywhere. Second, I'm not leaving until that boy has someone here for him. If you want my statement, fine. You'll just have to get it from me here."

Powell opened his mouth to argue, but changed his mind upon seeing the look on Duncan's face. It didn't really matter where he took the statement anyway. "Fine," he acquiesced with an annoyed sigh. Then he turned to the woman behind the desk. "Is there someplace private we can go?"

"You could try one of the private waiting rooms adjoining ER," she said after some thought.

Duncan gestured lazily. "After you?"

Powell led the way through the door back into the emergency ward, followed by MacLeod and with detective Anderson bringing up the rear. After a bit of a search they found an empty waiting room. _Waiting closet's more like_, Duncan thought. The room had a loveseat and a coffee table with out-of-date magazines strewn atop of it, and a water fountain in the corner that was out of paper cups. Detective Anderson took out a small notebook from the folds of his trench coat and sat down on the loveseat, setting his notebook on the coffee table.

"Ok MacLeod," Powell began. "You know the drill. From the beginning."

Duncan sighed and then spoke slowly so that Anderson could write it all down. "I was on my way back from Johnson's Antiques—"

"What were you doing there?" Powell interrupted.

Duncan bit back a choice comment — how was that relevant? "I was trying to pick up a piece of Medieval Greek sculpture that my shipping company accidentally delivered to his antique store instead of mine."

Powell nodded. "Did you get the sculpture?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because Mr. Johnson had already sold it by accident." Duncan was finding the struggle to feign politeness rather difficult, and it showed in his voice.

"Wasn't the sculpture legally yours?"

"It was," Duncan replied, his patience wearing thin.

"Then Mr. Johnson had no right to sell it."

"As I said, it was an accident."

"An accident like that is bad for business."

"No kidding," he agreed with harsh sarcasm.

Powell seemed unmoved by Duncan's emotional state. "Did Mr. Johnson tell you who he sold it to?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to have your lawyer inform them that they have no claim on the piece and that they should return it to your possession with a full refund from Johnson's Antiques?"

Correction, Powell actually seemed to be enjoying this. What the hell?

"I thought we were here to talk about Richard?" Duncan asked rather frostily.

"Oh right. The Ryan kid."

Duncan seriously considered hitting the man for being so heartless towards the boy. He also seriously doubted if Powell would even follow up on the case.

"Continue," Powell directed.

Duncan took a deep, calming breath before beginning again. "As I said, I was on my way home from Johnson's Antiques. I took a shortcut down Seabrook Drive."

"That's one hell of a shortcut, MacLeod," Powell interjected, his distaste for the neighborhood clearly showing.

"It was broad daylight, and it's got only the one stoplight where Seabrook crosses Madison," Duncan explained, his opinion of the detective lessening by the second.

Powell just nodded. "So you took the shortcut down Seabrook..."

"I took the shortcut down Seabrook and got caught at the traffic light."

"Caught?"

Duncan's right hand clenched involuntarily as the last of his patience drained away. It took a near act of God to prevent him from hitting the detective for his arrogance and quickness with unflattering assumptions. "I missed the light cycle," he said through clenched teeth.

Powell accepted the correction, but Duncan could have sworn that it was with an air of disappointment.

"So you were stuck at the red light..." Powell prodded again.

Duncan took another deep breath, counting silently to ten.

In Cantonese.

"The light just turned green and I had barely stepped on the gas when Richard darted out in front of my car and disappeared down the alley. After having to slam the breaks, I was ready to start driving again when five more boys darted in front of me. They were all wearing something orange. I'm sure they were part of a gang."

"The Nickel Bombers," Powell interjected, familiar with the gang referred to. "Ryan used to run with them."

"Well he obviously doesn't any more," Duncan concluded sarcastically, impatient.

"Guess not," Powell agreed, unenthused. "Then what?"

"Then I turned left down Madison and went after them."

"Why?" Powell asked, sounding more suspicious than curious.

"Because I saw a kid being chased by five gang members," Duncan answered as though it was obvious. "I caught up with them four blocks later."

"But why did you?" Powell probed. "Don't you know it's dangerous to get involved with gangs in this city?"

"It looked to me like Richard was the one in danger," Duncan pointed out, wondering how a cop could be so apathetic.

"Yeah," Powell admitted skeptically. "But why get involved?"

"Because five on one seemed a bit unfair?" Duncan offered, hardly believing Powell had the nerve to ask.

"Then why put yourself in those same odds?"

That was it. Duncan MacLeod had had quite enough of the sergeant's judgmental apathy. "The gang was gaining on him, Powell. What you have done, if you were me?" There was venom in Duncan's voice at the question. "Just let them catch up to him? Take him down, five on one? Allow the miscreants of society to take care of their own problems, not caring about a murder so long as it rids the city of another gang-banger?"

"That's enough MacLeod!" Powell barked, forcing Duncan had to suppress the urge to grin at striking a nerve.

"Then what would you have done?" he asked again, his voice devoid of emotion this time.

Powell grimaced. "I would have called for backup and then gone in there with my partner, badge showing, gun drawn, and arrested the lot of them," he answered at last, his voice returning to it's normal snide yet detached tone. "But we're two armed police officers with backup on the way. You're a lone, unarmed antique dealer. So why'd you do it?"

Duncan sighed, exhaling slowly. He was physically exhausted and quite tired of this whole process. "I didn't really do anything," he admitted at last. "I just slowed down long enough for Richard to jump into the T-Bird — I had the top down. He dove into the backseat without touching a door."

Powell nodded. "Then what?"

"Then I drove away," Duncan continued, the exhaustion showing in his voice. "After I made sure we weren't followed I took him to Columbus Park. I knew he would rather walk home than tell me where he lived, and that seemed as central a location as any. He didn't talk the whole way there, just in the back seat on the floor like he was expecting to be shot at." Duncan paused to be sure that Anderson was still getting everything down, now that the conversation had returned to relevancy.

"Once at the park Richard thanked me and got out of the car. That's when I noticed he was bleeding. I called after him, wanting to see how badly he was injured. I think in the adrenaline rush he didn't even realize how badly he was hurt. His last words were to that effect right before he passed out. When I saw how badly he was injured I used his bandana to put pressure on the wound, and then I drove him straight here."

Powell nodded when he was sure that Duncan had finished. "I see. But I thought you told us that your car had been impounded?"

Duncan sighed. Would it ever end? "It was towed away from the emergency entrance while I was inside."

"You parked in the ambulance zone?"

"Well I was more concerned with the boy bleeding to death in my front seat at the time," Duncan explained impatiently.

"I see," Powell echoed. "Well don't expect the kid to pay you back."

Duncan had to laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement. "You think that after all this I give a damn about the fines?" he asked incredulously.

For once Powell decided that it was best not to say anything further on the subject. "Well I think we're done here MacLeod—"

"Good."

"We'll be back to get the kid's statement once he wakes up," Powell finished curtly.

"I'm sure you will," Duncan added dryly as Powell turned to leave.

"Anderson," Powell called over his shoulder as he left the room. The other detective closed his notebook and replaced the pen in his pocket.

"Wait!" Duncan called after him.

Powell turned around slowly. "What is it, MacLeod?" he asked, this time the one to show impatience.

"Does Richard have any family coming for him?" Duncan asked.

Powell sighed, exasperated.

"He turned eighteen a few days ago," said Detective Anderson, speaking for the first time. "He's no longer a ward of the state so his DSS and jouvie records are sealed and according to his caseworker his last foster family dropped off the radar months ago."

"_Months_ ago?" Duncan was shocked. "Then who picked him up from the station after he broke into my store?"

"You know how underfunded and understaffed the DSS is," said Anderson. "His caseworker had to authorize his release over the phone because she couldn't get to the station to pick him up. He walked out on his own."

"Because you refused to press charges," Powell added unnecessarily.

"So you're telling me he has no family?"

"None that we've been able to locate," Anderson admitted. "The DSS sealed his record so we don't even know the _name_ of his most recent foster family and now that he's eighteen his caseworker can't even speak to us without a court order."

"So no one else knows or cares that he nearly died today," Duncan realized, speaking mostly to himself as he voiced his thoughts aloud.

"No one but you," Anderson conceded.

Duncan nodded, wishing that this cop could have been the one to conduct the interrogation and left Powell to take the notes.

"See you 'round, MacLeod," Powell bade him farewell as he left the room. Anderson half shrugged and followed after his partner.

Duncan sighed and followed after them, making his way back to the front waiting room where he was sure Tessa was waiting for him, and indeed she was.

"I take it that didn't go well," she said as she approached her weary lover, who was eying the detectives disdainfully as they exited the hospital.

"If Powell could arrest Richard for this somehow, he would."

Tessa nodded, sharing his opinion. "How's the boy?"

"Nothing's changed that I know of since I spoke to you on the phone. He's in the ICU so we can't visit him, even though he has no real family."

"What do you mean — he has no one?" Tessa asked in disbelief.

Duncan told her what the detectives had said.

"That's not right," she declared after he was through. "A boy shouldn't nearly die and have no one around to care about it."

"I know, Tess," Duncan agreed. "But it's not like there's anything we can do about it."

"I know. But that isn't going to stop us from visiting him when he wakes up."

Duncan smiled genuinely, the exhaustion melting away. "Oh, sweetheart..." Duncan pulled her into tight embrace. He left his thanks at her compassion and understanding unspoken and kissed her briefly before they separated.

"Come on," she said, taking him by the hand and leading him to the door. "It's too late for you to get your car now. Let's get something to eat. We can come back tomorrow." She was practically dragging him on his feet out of the hospital, as he was loath to leave the boy alone and unprotected. "Come on, Duncan. You know there's nothing more we can do tonight."

Finally his mind rationed that she was right. "You're right," he admitted, squeezing her hand as they made their way to the parking lot and her white Mercedes. "I'll come back tomorrow."

"_We_," Tessa corrected.

"Fine, _we'll_ come back tomorrow," he amended, fully intending to stick to that arrangement as soon as visiting hours began.


	2. Explanations and Expectations

The first order of business the next morning was to get the T-bird out of the impound lot. That task proved to be a bit more difficult than Duncan would have hoped as the authorities gave him a hard time about leaving the car running in tow-away zone and asked probing questions about the copious amounts of blood in both the front and back seats, to which Duncan had to explain several times how that was the direct result of the reason he left his car running in the ambulance-only zone in the first place.

Once the impound lot released the T-bird, Duncan drove it straight to the body shop to see about the bloodstains in the upholstery. Tessa had to first drive him to the impound and then follow him to the body shop, the agreement being that she would then drive them to the hospital to check on the boy. However, from the body shop Duncan insisted that she drive them straight back to the loft. Tessa was still feeling the effects of her flu bug and Duncan didn't want her hanging around a hospital with a weakened immune system. After much arguing, reasoning, and downright pleading, he convinced her to stay at the loft rather than accompany him to the hospital. Leaving Tessa to bed rest, Duncan then took the Mercedes back to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, Duncan learned that the boy's condition hadn't changed. He hadn't begun producing fluids and he was still unconscious in the ICU.

"Excuse me," he addressed one of the ICU nurses.

"May I help you?" the nurse asked without looking up from the chart she was examining.

"I'm here to see Richard Ryan."

"Are you family?"

"Of course," Duncan lied.

The nurse looked up and eyed him skeptically. He flashed his most charming smile and her resolve melted. "Third door on the left," she said, indicating the rest of the hallway behind him. Duncan thanked her and made his way to the boy's room.

The first two rooms he passed were adorned with cards and get-well gifts, which made the sight of Richie's bare room that much harder to see. There weren't any personal touches anywhere.

Duncan noticed the room before he noticed Richie. The boy was lying on the bed, slightly reclined. He had an IV in his left hand and another in his right elbow. The sheet was covering the lower half of his body, but the bandage of the knife wound was exposed. There were no bloodstains on it, which was a blessing. In the background, the electronic socks whirred to life.

Richie looked so small, lying in the bed like that. With the boy finally lying still and without much covering his lanky frame, Duncan noticed that what he previously assumed to be simply a scrawny figure really looked downright fragile. His skin was ashen and his cheeks were slightly sunken in. Duncan wondered about the last time he had a decent meal. Without the bandana, his strawberry blond curls were like an unruly jungle growing atop his head, which looked smaller than it should between the weight of the hair, the position he was resting in, and the nasal cannula affixed to his nose. Duncan could hardly believe this boy was an eighteen-year-old petty criminal. Right now he looked more like a lost twelve-year-old, innocent to time and the world around him. Duncan's heart went out to the boy. He had almost died and nobody would have noticed or cared, and none would have mourned his passing.

"Not such a tough guy now, are we?" Duncan asked sadly as he brushed an errant curl out of the boy's face. He sat down in a chair next to the bed to wait for him to awaken, meanwhile trying to decide what he was going to say when Richie saw him there. After all, the boy had witnessed a swordfight, a beheading, a quickening, and Connor coming back from the dead. Duncan was at a loss as to how to explain that all away believably, especially to a kid who had no reason to trust him anyway. The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind; after all, Richie _was _pre-immortal...

However, telling him the truth would come with a price. Giving a pre-immortal knowledge of the immortal world was dangerous in and of itself. Many immortals were known to hunt the pre-immortals, savoring their underdeveloped quickenings like so much veal. Throwing a pre-immortal in with the 'grown-ups' was like bringing a lamb into the lions' den. The boy would constantly be a target, especially if he was to be seen hanging around Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who wasn't exactly a low profile immortal to spite his best efforts to remain out of the game.

The other thing to consider was that the boy would be another liability. He hated having to worry about what an immortal could do to Tessa in the process of coming after him, but Slan Quince had forced that thought into the forefront of his nightmares. The boy could be used the same way, and probably more often given his pre-immortality. The last thing Duncan wanted was for Richie to enter the game so young, still underdeveloped both physically and mentally, and as a direct result of his interference. Another ten years and Duncan would be willing to entertain the possibility that he was ready. If, he thought dryly, an immortal was _ever _ready.

However, what would happen to the boy if Duncan didn't tell him the truth? He'd learn about immortals eventually, the hard way. What would be the price of lying to him now? That possessive protectiveness he felt towards the boy made Duncan want to ensure that when the time came he'd be Richie's teacher, and he couldn't possibly do that if the boy didn't trust him. He couldn't explain what it was about the boy that set off his paternal instincts. He hadn't had a student in over two hundred years, and nor did he fancy himself ever wanting one again. There was just something about this Ryan kid…

Eventually Duncan decided that he couldn't lie to the boy. When he regained consciousness he was bound to ask uncomfortable questions. There would be no avoiding that. The only remotely clean way out of this horribly messy situation that Duncan could find was be to tell the boy the truth: that he was a four hundred-year-old immortal and what transpired on the bridge was the game playing itself out. If the boy knew about immortals then he'd be better prepared for what's to come. At the very least he'd know to seek out holy ground, just in case. The only thing necessary to keep from him was the fact that he too was destined to become immortal. That type of knowledge would be devastatingly dangerous in the hands of a kid who, probably like most teenagers, already believed himself to be invincible. After all, the object was to keep the kid _out _of the game for as long as possible.

There was one problem, however. As much as Duncan wanted to trust the boy with his secret, as a rule he hasn't been one to trust that secret to many. Tessa was the first mortal lover he ever confided in, and he could count on one hand his mortal friends down through the years that knew the truth about him (and had lived). His instincts told him that he could trust the boy, but then again his instincts were up against some pretty hard evidence to the contrary. As much as Duncan had to gain the boy's trust if he was ever to become his teacher, he also knew that the boy had to gain _his_ trust in return if he was going to reveal his secret to him. And building that kind of trust takes time.

With these decisions made Duncan began to formulate a plan of action. First he would reassure the kid that he meant him no harm. Then he would try and figure out why those boys were chasing him and see what he could do to help the present situation (whatever that may be). Accomplishing those tasks was the first step in building that highly coveted mutual trust. The next step would need to be discussed with Tessa: Duncan wanted to have the boy work off what he owed them in the antique store. It would be the best way for Richie to prove his character and for Duncan to see if they each could earn the other's trust. It would also provide the boy with a legitimate source of income, taking him off the streets and subsequently out of (as much) danger (as possible).

Duncan had everything he was about to say and do all planned out. The only thing needed now was for the boy to wake up. Unfortunately, he failed to do so before a nurse caught Duncan overstaying his visitation rights for the ICU. That, coupled with the revelation that he wasn't actually related to Richard Ryan (as his chart listed no family), gave Duncan a hard choice: leave now peacefully or be escorted off the premises by security. Not wanting to cause a scene, the Highlander went with the first option, vowing to return as soon as Richie was moved from the ICU and placed in a regular room, where by law the hospital had no legal grounds for restricting his visitation. He just hoped that the boy wouldn't wake up in the hospital alone.

* * *

Duncan left for the hospital early the next morning so as to avoid rehashing the argument with Tessa. Although she had been feeling better, he still didn't want her subjecting herself to the myriad of germs floating around a hospital. Also, confronting the boy upon his awakening would be difficult enough one on one. Having Tessa there as a (rather intimidating) distraction wouldn't help matters any. Thus he decided to leave before she awoke that morning, preferring the argument to take place after the fact. Better to seek forgiveness than beg permission.

Once at the hospital Duncan learned that, while no one knew for certain if Richie had regained consciousness or not because no one had been with him if and when he had, his condition had stabilized to the point where they could move him to a normal room. Duncan waved to the security personnel with a smile as he boarded the elevator.

It was more depressing than surprising that the new room was just as bare as the old one. This time he only had the one IV in his hand and the cannula to contend with. There were fewer monitors and gadgets around, and the room let in more light. The boy's color had improved from death warmed over to life on a very bad day. He still looked twelve, and hadn't quite escaped the 'little boy lost' quality that he'd assumed in the ICU, but there was definitely a marked improvement in him. Once again Duncan occupied the seat by the bed, busying himself with one of the many out-of-date magazines from the waiting room, and renewed his vigil.

Fortunately he did not have to wait long.

Duncan noticed immediately when the boy began to stir. He stood, abandoning the magazine and, deciding after a brief but brutal debate that the boy's waking up to see 'the vampire' staring down at him wouldn't be the wisest choice, he moved to stand by the window some feet away from the side of the bed.

The boy shifted, squirming as one does when seeking a more comfortable resting position. However, comfort was hard to find when one had tubes sticking in and out of their skin in various locations, and thus his eyes blinked groggily awake. He was trying to discern where the hell he was.

"Welcome back, tough guy," Duncan greeted, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible so as not to frighten the boy.

"You…" Richie's voice sounded tired and horse.

"Me." Duncan flashed a grin.

The boy was more confused than frightened, and it showed in his voice and on his expression. "What the hell are you doing here? What happened?"

Duncan shrugged. "I brought you here. As for what happened, all I know is that you were stabbed in the gut. I was kinda hoping that you'd fill in the rest."

The boy regarded him quizzically for a moment before realization struck. "I'm in the hospital, aren't I." It wasn't a question.

Duncan merely nodded.

Richie paused a moment to take closer stock of his surroundings. He noticed the IV running from his hand up to the bags of saline and antibiotics, noted the electronic equipment that measured his vital signs, his non-vital statistics, and just about everything in between, and — to his chagrin — the bedpan and catheter.

"How long?"

"Since the day before yesterday."

"Three days?" Richie sort of squeaked; he sounded very young.

Duncan nodded again, and watched as Richie ifted his covers to inspect the rather large bandage covering much of his abdomen.

"You were stabbed," Duncan reminded him. "Do you remember?"

Richie turned sharply to regard the Highlander. It was an atavistic response to remember that the man standing by the window carried a very sharp sword. Duncan's jaw clenched under the scrutiny, but he forced all emotion to remain hidden. Then suddenly the boy's expression changed, as though the correct gears were turning.

"Romeo. I had that fight with Romeo…" Richie shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

"Then what happened?" Duncan prodded gently.

Richie was silent a moment, collecting and then sorting out the tumult of memory into an order that made logical sense. "Somehow I got away. I ran. Romeo chased after me. Then the rest of them found me. I... remember I outran them, down through the alley. Then you showed up in the convertible."

Duncan waited patiently as Richie sorted his scattered recollections. "And?" Well, almost patiently.

The boy's face contorted, reminding Duncan of a frightened child. He shimmied over on the bed as far away from the Highlander as he possibly could. "What do you want with me? How did you find me?" he babbled, feeling trapped by the rails on the bed and by the instruments tethering him there.

"Well I found you when you darted out in front of my car, when you crossed Seabrook to get to the alley." Duncan explained, doing his best to appear as non-intimidating as possible.

"And you followed me?" Richie's voice skirted up half an octave in fearful disbelief.

Duncan shrugged. "You were being chased. Five-to-one odds isn't something one just allows, even to those who break into one's place of business."

Richie swallowed hard. Duncan couldn't help but pity him.

"You recognized me," he said, again a statement more so than a question.

Duncan grinned. "I have an excellent memory."

The boy just nodded. "Why?" he asked in a very small voice. Duncan almost didn't hear him.

"Why what?"

"The only way you could have gotten ahead of me like that was if you meant to."

"Well, I did mean to," Duncan admitted, not sure what the boy was getting at. "A car makes for a faster getaway."

"But why?" the boy persisted, turning bright and honest eyes up at his rescuer. "Why'd you go out of your way for me like that?" The honest disbelief conveyed in that question made Duncan inwardly flinch.

"Because you looked like you needed the help," he answered simply, honestly.

"But I'm a thief. I broke into your store!" For all that he'd practically shouted that — impressive, given the dry rasp still clinging to his words for want of something to drink — Duncan saw that the boy was more confused right now than anything else.

"And you think that because of that I would leave you to the mercy of the gang?" Duncan asked him, incredulous and not just a little bit insulted at the insinuation.

Richie suddenly became very interested in picking at the knitting of the blanket, and Duncan was left with the distinct impression that the boy sincerely didn't know why he'd saved him. The wonder went deeper than just why this particular man had saved him, however. Richie honestly couldn't fathom why anyone would spend the time and effort to save him. Duncan saw that in his eyes and read it in his voice, and felt something in his own chest constrict painfully for the thought.

"You wouldn't be the first," he mumbled finally, and though it took Duncan a moment to decipher what exactly was said, he was still ready with the perfect comeback.

"Well Richard, I'm not like everyone else."

The kid blinked. "You know my name?"

"Yeah," Duncan admitted, amused, but at Richie's nonplussed expression he clarified: "it's written on your chart, and there on your hospital bracelet." He indicated those items as he spoke. "And besides, I told you — I have an excellent memory."

Richie nodded slowly, accepting this. "So, you know me. But who — _what _— are you?"

While he was still afraid, it wasn't that atavistic, reactionary fear it was before. After all, the man had saved his life. Granted this man carried a sword, threatened to chop his head off, and then made good on that threat with another guy on Soldier's Bridge — but none of the evidence added up. He was a sword-wielding antique shop owner with a gorgeous wife (Richie just assumed they were married) who committed cold-blooded murder but then stopped to save a thief's worthless life. The fear was still present, but it was accompanied by a genuine, nagging curiosity.

Duncan was glad for this for his own reasons.

"My name is Duncan MacLeod," he said, "and I hope you don't still think I'm going to drink your blood." This he said with a joking tone, but his eyes were serious. After all, was being immortal any more or less believable than being a vampire? Just ask Nicholas Ward…

Thankfully Richie blushed slightly at the memory. "Yeah I kinda figured that part out, what with the you not bursting into flames and all," he admitted sheepishly.

Duncan nodded, grateful, but the rest of their conversation was cut short by the arrival of a nurse. Since Duncan wasn't family he was shooed out of the room so that she could change Richie's sheets, bandages, and check his fluid output.

"I'll check back on you later," he said as he exited the room, the nurse giving him dirty looks as he went.

Duncan knew that after the nurse was through with him the doctors would have their turn, and then after that, the cops. It was lunchtime now. Duncan decided that he would return to the loft and tell Tessa that the boy had regained consciousness. He would return to the hospital in the evening (preferably without Tessa) to finish the discussion. Besides, he needed to confer with her on having Richie work off his debt to them in the store (or at least that's what he'd be telling Tessa the boy would be doing).

* * *

Duncan returned to the loft to find the store closed. His hopes that Tessa was in bed resting were dashed when he heard the blowtorch roar to life in Tessa's workshop.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked her from the doorway.

"It's Wednesday," she reminded him without stopping her assault on the metal slab in front of her. "On Wednesdays you open the store and I spend business hours on my art." With that she silenced the blowtorch. "Or have you forgotten that after all these years?" Tessa removed the visor and turned to regard her lover. She was covered in sweat, and Duncan wasn't sure that it was just from the heat of her work.

"I haven't forgotten," he said softly as he entered the workshop from the doorway.

For a moment it looked as though Tessa was planning on pressing the issue, but for whatever reason she abandoned the thought. Instead her expression softened. "You were at the hospital, weren't you?" she asked, inflection indicating that she already knew the answer.

Duncan merely nodded. He didn't want to fight with her over this, and Tessa's French temper was formidable even when she wasn't irritable from illness.

"How's the boy?"

"Well he's regained consciousness," Duncan answered, trying to sound cheerful. "I think he's still afraid of me."

"Well the last time you saw him outside of a police station you threatened him."

Duncan winced. He never told her that Richie had followed Connor to Soldier's Bridge that night. Feeling suicidal, he did so now. With his current plans for the boy, it was best to be as honest with Tessa as the unique circumstances would allow.

Not that Tessa was happy about it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, her temper flaring.

"It didn't seem important at the time," he admitted.

"Oh yes, that's right," Tessa drawled, sarcastic and dismissive. "At the time you were too busy leaving me."

Whatever retort Duncan was about to make died in his throat as Tessa practically spat the last part at him. He hastily regained his composure after a moment of tense silence. "I had much more important things on my mind," he admitted at last, half-shrugging.

Tessa shook her head slightly. "You went the hospital without me." Her voice had lost the heat of anger, but Duncan wasn't exactly sure what new emotions underscored the softer tone.

"I thought you should stay in bed. You've got the flu, you know," he said, keeping his voice soft. "And besides, I thought it would be easier on the boy. He knows me."

"Sure," Tessa blithely agreed, mocking his casualness, "he knows you carry a big sword and chop people's heads off."

Duncan winced. "Tessa—"

"You didn't even ask me how I was feeling."

Duncan sighed and hung his head in defeat. There was nothing he could say to that.

"Duncan, you lie to me, keep me away from you, sneak off on me without so much as leaving a note, and you don't even ask me my opinions on any of it."

Duncan found the courage to look into her face. There was nothing he could really say to _that_, either, but at least he was man enough to admit it — and to grovel shamelessly, if need be.

"Twelve years, Duncan. I would have thought I deserved better from you, especially now."

"You do!" Duncan protested earnestly as he went to put his arms around her. She caught his arms backed away, holding his hands down in front of her.

"I'm sorry Duncan. I know I forced myself on you at the cabin. I think you need to decide if you truly want me in your life, because right now your actions speak otherwise."

Again whatever the Highlander was about to say died in his throat. Tessa released his hands and walked away out of her workshop without looking back. Now it was Duncan's turn to adopt the look of a lost little boy. There was nothing he could say to her. She was right. He kept the gathering a secret from her, kept Richie a secret from her, and had abandoned her when he went to the hospital. Suddenly all of his reasons seemed selfish and unimportant. He wanted to run after her, to apologize for everything and to tell her that he desperately wanted her to remain a part of his life.

He wanted to, but he couldn't do it. He didn't have the right words to say to her, not after what she'd just said to him. He didn't even know if she even wanted him to say anything. He might go back into the loft and find her packing her suitcase and he knew he couldn't handle walking in on that. Powerless against his own emotions, Duncan walked out the back way through the workshop and into the alley behind the store.

* * *

It was a long walk to the body shop that was working on the T-bird, but Duncan didn't mind it. He needed that time to think about how he could make things right with Tessa.

He reached the body shop nearly two hours later, having been in no real hurry to get there. Upon arriving he had assurances that the T-bird would be ready within the hour, so he sat to wait it out. As it turned out it took more than an hour, but again Duncan didn't mind the extra time. He was in no real hurry.

It was going on four o'clock when Duncan pulled out of the body shop in the T-bird. He had two choices: go back to the loft and deal with Tessa, or head over to the hospital to deal with Richie. After driving around aimlessly for a time he finally decided to head to the hospital. Dealing with Richie would be a lot easier if he could pretend that Tessa was still home waiting for him.

It was just after four thirty when he entered Richie's room at the hospital. The boy was sitting up in bed staring at the tray of hospital food in front of him with a look of disgust.

"You just missed the cops," he said as he skewered his meat-like product with his fork. It dripped a gravy-like ooze back onto his plate.

"Good." The relief in Duncan's tone surprised Richie, who put down his fork to give all his attention to the Highlander.

"They tell me you saved my life," he said, his voice devoid of any traces of emotion. "That I nearly bled to death."

"I was just in the right place at the right time."

Richie shook his head slightly, trying to make sense of it all. "The nurses say that you've been here every day. That once they had to have security show you out." The boy sounded more confused than anything else, and it made him appear very young.

"Hey they only _threatened _to have security show me out," Duncan clarified with a grin. Richie half-heartedly returned the gesture, but neither smile made it to their eyes.

"You didn't have to, you know," Richie said to his dinner. "Keep an eye on me, I mean. I wasn't gonna reveal your secret."

Duncan flinched but masked the reaction by walking over to the chair and sitting down. Richie followed him with his peripheral vision, but didn't make eye contact.

"I wasn't afraid that you would," Duncan told him seriously.

This caused Richie to look up at last. He searched the Highlander's face for truth to that statement, but judging by his facial expression he didn't exactly know what to do with that truth when he found it. "Then why'd you stay?"

Duncan suppressed a sigh and bit his tongue. It wasn't the boy's fault that the thought of someone actually caring about what happened to him hadn't even entered his mind. Instead he forced a shrug. "I wanted to make sure you were ok."

Richie looked away again, uncomfortable at the honesty. "Well, you know I'm ok now. So why are you still here?" he asked, his numerous emotional defense mechanisms belatedly snapping into place.

Duncan shrugged. _In for a penny..._ "I didn't want you to be alone."

"Why should you care if I'm alone?" Richie snapped. "It's not like I've never—" but he cut himself off, eyes momentarily flying wide at how he'd very nearly let his mouth run away with him. Regardless though Duncan was able to fill in the blanks, and forced himself not to flinch as he did so.

"No one should be alone in the hospital." He tried to sound as non-committed and unassuming as possible.

Richie turned away. "It never mattered before," he mumbled, only to belatedly realize he'd spoken aloud when he caught sight of the look on the Highlander's face.

"You've been here before?" Duncan's voice was as steady as it was intent.

Richie shrugged. "Sure," he admitted, trying to pretend it was nothing when they both knew that it wasn't. "What teenage boy today hasn't slipped on the stairs, gotten into fights with his brothers, or fallen off the monkey bars at the playground?"

Duncan's jaw clenched involuntarily as he surmised those to be the official stories, but then forced himself to relax. "Well I didn't know you then," he said, trying for the same casual tone that Richie found.

"And what if you did?" Richie challenged. He was mouthing off in classic fashion — at least it meant that he was feeling better.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Did the monkey bars have a name?"

Richie suddenly dropped his gaze, abandoning the pretext as easily as he abandoned eye contact. He looked away sharply, suddenly remembering that the man sitting next to him also carried a large, very sharp sword and had cut someone's head off.

"It doesn't matter now," he said smugly, regaining his composure. "I'm eighteen. No one can touch those records now; not you, not the cops, and sure as hell not the monkey bars."

"You turned eighteen?" Duncan asked, latching onto the chance to change the subject even though he already knew the answer. After all, the last time he encountered the boy he had still been a minor.

"Four days ago," Richie bragged.

Duncan grinned. "Well happy birthday." If he was intending to throw the boy off guard, well it surely worked.

"Thanks," Richie muttered after a brief pause. He really didn't know what to make of the murdering, life saving antique dealer sitting not a foot from his bed with a coat long enough to conceal that sword he'd already gotten too close a look at.

Duncan sighed. He knew that the boy was still at least partially afraid of him, and that he still had many unanswered questions. Richie was scared and confused, and was masking those emotions with anger and a devil-may-care attitude. Duncan knew that earning the boy's trust would not be an easy task. "You don't need to be afraid of me, you know," he said at length.

Richie saw in the Highlander's face the honesty he had heard in his voice. "Yeah, well, I figured that if you were gonna lop off my head you would have done it already," he said dismissively, effectively masking the relief he felt at that statement. He didn't know if he could take the man at his word.

"I'm not gonna lop your head off," Duncan assured again, using the boy's terminology and making sure that Richie knew that he was serious.

"Well that's good to know," Richie said with a confidence Duncan was almost certain the boy didn't truly possess.

The Highlander sighed again. Now was as good a time as any. "Look, Richard, about the man on the bridge—"

"It's Richie," he interrupted hastily, as the subject was obvious an uncomfortable one for him. "And I figure, if you did it, well you musta had your reasons." His voice returned to his earlier resignation that was trying its hardest to be apathy.

For a moment Duncan didn't know whether or not to continue. Then he decided to make the first move as far as trust was concerned. "Yes I did, but I figured I owed you an explanation."

Richie balked. "Why would you owe me anything?"

"Because your keeping secret what you witnessed makes you an accessory."

It was Richie's turn to sigh. The man was right about that part. "So talk."

Duncan took a moment to formulate his explanation. "The man on the bridge was Slan Quince. He came to the store that night to kill me. I knew he was coming, only I hadn't actually met him yet. That's why I pulled my sword on you — I mistook you for him."

Richie nodded. That made sense. "And Sir Lancelot?"

It took Duncan a moment to realize he was referring to Connor. "That," he said with a grin, "was Connor MacLeod."

"Relative of yours?" Richie asked, now looking up.

"Cousin. Somehow he found out Slan was after me and had come to warn me."

Richie nodded again. At least Duncan's explanation fit with what happened at the store that night. It didn't explain why they were all carrying swords, or what that strange light show was, or how this Connor MacLeod seemed to come back from the dead. Actually, the explanation left as many questions as it answered. "Boy did I pick the wrong night for petty theft," Richie grumbled for lack of anything else to say to fill the silence.

Duncan laughed. "You could say that again."

Then the silence returned.

"I saw you and Lancelot fighting in the warehouse," Richie admitted at last.

Duncan started in surprise. "You followed me?" Richie must have been too far away at the time for his pre-immortal presence to register. Either that or he and Connor were too distracted at the time to notice the faint buzz for what it was.

"Hey, I was curious. And you weren't exactly forthcoming with information before," Richie protested in his defense.

Duncan sighed. Now wasn't the time to argue the point. "We weren't fighting, we were sparring. You know — practicing?"

"Yeah I figured that," said Richie, annoyed that the man underestimated his intelligence. "I was referring to the fact that you were both using swords, and I didn't see either of you wearing any equipment either."

"Well, Connor and I figure we're good enough to not have to wear protective equipment," Duncan said at last, at a loss as to how to explain it without giving away the secret of his immortality.

"And I figured that I was good enough at hockey to not wear a facemask until I caught a puck in the eye. Accidents can happen, you know," Richie said with mock-seriousness.

"Ok, so maybe we were being reckless," Duncan admitted.

"Grown-ups aren't supposed to be reckless," Richie said, pouting slightly in a manner that reminded Duncan briefly of Amanda. That didn't hide the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"But Connor and I have been practicing with swords for longer than you've been alive. We're allowed to think we're experts."

"What? Are you guys part of the SCA or something?" Richie asked, looking up to regard the Highlander again.

The Society for Creative Anachronism! Duncan hadn't even considered that as a possible explanation. "Something like that," he admitted, grateful for the out.

Richie seemed to be accepting of this explanation. It explained why they all had swords they knew how to use. "And this Slan guy?"

Duncan shrugged. "I guess he took the game too far." He had to bite his tongue to keep from smirking at the irony.

"But, why did he want to kill you?"

"Do psychotic killers need a reason?" Duncan shrugged. "I guess he figured that I'd be an easy target."

"I bet he wasn't counting on your cousin showing up," said Richie, smiling earnestly for the first time.

"Indeed he was not," Duncan agreed. He figured that Richie was buying at least this part. That was progress, right?

"So, if this Psycho Slan guy was after you, why'd your cousin fight him on the bridge?"

Duncan's brief and irrational hope that he would leave the issue was very short lived. "Slan sent me an ultimatum," he said, resigned to having to explain the rest of it. "Connor didn't want me to face him, so he knocked me out and went there in my place."

"Knocked you out?" Richie sounded dubious.

"One punch," Duncan admitted, still slightly ashamed of the ease at which Connor waylaid him.

"Damn." Richie sounded impressed. "So why?"

It took Duncan a moment to figure out what Richie was referring to. "Well, because he's my older cousin he still feels that it's his job to protect me," Duncan explained, smiling in spite of himself at the thought.

Richie nodded, understanding the logic if not the sentiment. There was an uneasy silence for a time, Richie not sure of how to ask the next question and Duncan not sure of how to answer it when it inevitably came.

"But, I saw your cousin die," Richie said at last. "That guy shot him and he fell off the bridge."

"He didn't shoot him, exactly," Duncan clarified. "Slan kept a dagger mounted on a spring in the hilt of his sword. When he realized he was losing he released the spring and launched the dagger at Connor. It hit him in the shoulder and knocked him off the bridge."

"So it didn't kill him then?"

"Well, you saw me help him out of the water alive," said Duncan with a slight smile. He wasn't lying.

"That's true," Richie admitted. Duncan could tell that he was satisfied with the explanation so far. Now all that was left was the part where he explained away the beheading and the quickening. _Right_. _Piece of cake_.

After a pause Richie continued: "So, when you got to the bridge you thought he'd killed your cousin. And you knew that he wanted to kill you, too."

"Uh huh. That's about right."

"So in a way it was self defense, then."

"In a way," Duncan reflected. It was all just part of the game.

"But, if this guy was after you why didn't you go to the police? When I gave my statement to the cops why did you tell them I made it up and then make me promise not to tell anyone else about it?" With this series of questions the lost little boy had returned with a vengeance.

"If our roles were reversed would _you _have gone to the police?" Duncan asked, taking a gamble.

"No," Richie admitted at length. "But then again, I'm biased."

"Well, so am I." It was the truth, and Richie picked up on it — and smiled. They had something in common.

"I still won't tell anyone," Richie promised, feeling the need to reassure the point.

"I believe you," Duncan responded readily. "After all, we have an agreement."

Richie laughed. "Yeah. And you have seven years before the statute of limitations denies you the luxury of changing your mind."

"Well I'm not going to change my mind so long as you decide not to change yours," Duncan replied matter-of-factly. Actually, he knew that he would never change his mind. Something about Richie made him believe that, for all his bravado and ease in lying, he would keep his word when he promised something. He wasn't a completely disrespectable youth, yet.

Richie nodded, reaffirming their agreement. "Do you have an explanation for the lightning show, too?" he asked at length.

All of a sudden Duncan was aware that the boy wasn't taking his explanations at face value. While he was accepting them as truth, he knew that they certainly weren't the _whole _truth. Duncan silently cursed. There was no getting out of explaining it to him fully.

"I do," he said. "But you're not ready to hear it." Now was just not the time nor place to explain it.

Much to Duncan's surprise, Richie just nodded again, accepting this without a fight. Duncan finally saw that the boy was tired; all this talking was taking its toll on him.

"You should get some rest," he said, standing up and heading for the door.

"You try resting with all these things sticking out of you," Richie protested, indicating his IV.

"Good night, tough guy," Duncan said with a grin as he exited the room. He headed back down to the T-bird, knowing that he shouldn't postpone going back to the loft. The conversation with Richie had been as much a success as Duncan could have hoped for. He only hoped his luck would hold through the night.


	3. Amends and Arrangements

Duncan entered the loft through the store entrance. The sign in the window said 'closed' but the door itself was unlocked. Once inside, he found Tessa seated on the stairs that lead from the store to the loft, twirling a tissue through her hands with nervous tension.

"Duncan!"

Tessa's voice was hoarse, either from crying or illness, or both. She swiftly stood and bounded down the stairs two at a time in her excitement, but she misstepped the last few and went sailing ungracefully forward. Only Duncan's immortal reflexes were able to stop the descent. He grabbed her upper arms when they flew forward as her foot slipped off the stair. He held onto her as the rest of her body caught up to her. Tessa didn't weigh much, but her momentum made her too heavy for the grip he had on her. She nearly pulled him over as she sank to the ground, her shins lightly dusting the floor because she wasn't fast enough to land on her feet once Duncan had full support of her upper body. Immediately after her shins lighted down she jerked her feet out, winding up in a rather unflattering squat with Duncan still holding her upper arms, bent over her nearly to the point of falling on top of her. This he compensated for by swiftly dropping to one knee, making him roughly eye level with her.

"Are you all right?" Duncan asked, the concern in his voice tinted by the sudden adrenaline rush. Tessa sat dazed for a moment before suddenly snapping out of it.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Duncan—"

"It's all right," he said, helping her to stand. He still held one of her arms, but his other hand wrapped around her shoulders and held her close, protectively.

Tessa pushed away slightly to be able to address him directly. "No, Duncan. When I realized that you'd gone, but hadn't taken my car—"

"I just walked to the body shop to get my car," he said to reassure her that his intentions were completely legitimate and honorable.

"But when I discovered you gone… Duncan, those things I said—"

"It's ok, Tess. I'm not leaving you," he reassured again. "Not again. Not unless you want me to."

"I just thought that, earlier, it looked like you were keeping me at arm's length. You kept secrets from me, even after… You promised." Tessa's voice was a harsh yet soft whisper, choked by illness and tears, and her eyes were bright.

"I know, Tessa. It's just that, with everything that's happened recently, I honestly just forgot to tell you about the boy being at the bridge. I was more concerned with you at the time," Duncan admitted honestly.

"I know," Tessa was still on the verge of tears. "I just thought that, your leaving me out of your dealings with the boy—your not even mentioning him to me, it was like you were trying to keep me out of your life. Out of the immortal part of your life. I felt like Lois Lane. I want all of you, Duncan MacLeod. Not just the mild-mannered antique dealer. I don't want to go back to only being in half your life."

The tears fell as Tessa finished her speech. Duncan pulled her in close and just held her for a time, letting her get it out of her system.

"You listen to me young lady," he said at last, tipping her chin up so she would look him in the eye. "I didn't tell you the whole truth before because I thought that I could stay out of the game. That was a stupid and naïve thought and I was wrong. Now you know the whole truth, about the gathering and other immortals coming for my head. I wanted to protect you from this, but I can't. I'm sorry."

Tessa nodded slightly, regaining some of her composure. She understood why Duncan had decided to leave her; Connor had explained it during the drive to the island. Duncan couldn't protect her from the game, and she would only be a target to be used against him if she stayed with him. It was the risk all immortals took when they chanced to take a mortal lover. She knew that he desperately needed to protect her, and that in his mind, her living and hating him for walking out after twelve years was better than her being dead because of him.

Knowing all this didn't make her like or accept the idea of his leaving, however. She convinced him that now that she knew the truth it should be her choice whether or not she stayed with him. After all, she was an adult and fully aware of the dangers they may face. Slan Quince left no illusions in her mind.

"I love you, Tess," Duncan continued. "And like you said, you know the risks of staying with me, and you're right it should be your choice to make. But I promised you that I would never try to leave you again. I meant it." Duncan felt tears welling up in his own eyes towards the end.

"Oh Duncan," Tessa sobbed as she renewed her embrace, holding him as tightly as her tired muscles were capable of. They held each other there in the store, feeling the reassurance that they each knew the other would die first before walking out of this relationship voluntarily.

* * *

"How's the boy?" Tessa asked. She was snuggled into the crook of Duncan's arm, her head resting on his chest.

"Well he's awake," Duncan offered. In truth he wasn't sure how Richie was doing. Physically he was recovering, but otherwise…

"Did you talk to him?"

"We talked," Duncan answered, not-committed.

"And?" Tessa prodded, tilting her head to see his face.

"And I told him what happened that night at the store," he admitted finally.

Tessa sat up and stared down at him gravely. "What exactly did you tell him?" She asked, her tone serious.

"The truth," Duncan answered. Then, before she could interject he added: "That Slan came to the store looking to kill me, and because I'd never met him I confused the two of them, considering he was holding a sword at the time." Duncan laughed slightly in spite of himself. "I told him that Connor is my cousin who found out that Slan was after me and had come to warn me, and we all wound up in the store that night, and boy did he pick the wrong night to break in!" Duncan laughed again, and this time Tessa joined him, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Well technically that is the truth, Duncan," she said. "But what of the rest of it?"

"Ah, that." Duncan hated the lies he had to tell the boy for the interim. "I told him that we were all members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, so that's how we were able to all fight so well with swords."

This time Tessa laughed. "You didn't!"

Duncan just shrugged, half smiling.

Tessa renewed her laughter. Then she stopped and her face turned serious again. "But Duncan, you said that he saw you kill Slan on the bridge."

Duncan sighed, weighing just how to tell her what he'd told Richie, and why.

"I told him that Slan was after me, and that he wanted to kill me. I told him that Connor, being my older cousin, wanted to protect me. I left the parts about immortality, and Richie believed that Connor must have survived the fall from the bridge because ordinary people don't rise from the dead."

"I see," said Tessa, following the logic. "But, if you didn't tell him about immortals, how did you explain away the beheading?"

"I didn't."

"Pardon?" Tessa asked with French inflection. "But Duncan, he saw you kill a man."

"I know, Tess," Duncan sighed, defeated. "I told him that Slan would have killed me if I didn't kill him, and that it was self defense. And that at the time I had thought he'd killed Connor."

"But, you told me that you saw Connor fall off the bridge as you drove up?"

"I did."

"Then, if you knew he was ok—"

"Revenge, Tess," Duncan interjected. Then, in response to her quizzical expression: "Self defense, and avenging my cousin. Those are the reasons I gave Richie for killing Slan Quince."

"But, why?" She asked, still not understanding.

"Because those are things he can understand, Tess."

"But, how could a seventeen year old boy just accept that. To him it was murder!"

Duncan sighed. "He's eighteen," he corrected. "And no, it wasn't murder. It was self defense and revenge. In his mind that isn't murder, it's justifiable homicide."

"I don't care if he is eighteen. He's still just a boy. How can he see killing as justified?"

Duncan sighed, not liking the turn of this conversation. "Do you see it as justified?" He asked.

Tessa opened her mouth to answer, but caught herself. She paused as if she were considering the question more closely.

Unbeknownst to her, Duncan was holding his breath.

"Yes," she said at length. "But only because I know about immortals. I know what the gathering is, and that you had no choice. He doesn't know that."

"Do you think I should have told him the truth?" Duncan asked honestly.

Tessa didn't appear to have an answer to that.

"But he believed you? He accepted what you told him?" She answered his question with one of her own.

"I think so, Tess. I'm pretty sure he did," Duncan said, sounding more confident than he was feeling.

Tessa seem to accept this and lied back down again, curling into him. "I love you so much Duncan," she said.

"I love you too sweetheart." They held each other for a few moments, just content to be in each other's company. It felt right, like home.

In the back of his mind Duncan wanted to ask her if she would ever accept the times in his past when killing wasn't in self defense. He wondered if he could share the more violent parts of his past with her, or of the times he's been the one to issue challenges to other immortals on the belief that something they have done makes it justifiable for him to judge them deserving to die. Yes Slan left him no choice, but there are plenty of times when he has had the choice, and he chose to kill. Some of those times he regretted, but still others he knew that, given the right circumstances, he would make the same choice, and make similar choices now. Would she accept his Highland code of honor as a proper reason? Or that the game makes revenge fully expected and appreciated?

These thoughts were chased from his mind when Tessa's hands gave him reason to think of the immediate future. When their passions had finally exhausted them and they finally fell asleep, their thoughts were on much happier things.

* * *

The next morning Tessa accompanied Duncan to the hospital. They made a brief pit stop at the local Wonder Burger, Duncan surmising that Richie would have had just about enough of the hospital food by now. When the arrived they found that the visitors' parking lot was full.

"Why don't you head up ahead of me?" Tessa suggested. "I'll go park the car and then come find you."

Duncan debated for a moment before agreeing. "Room 304," he said. He gave her a quick kiss before getting out of the car and making his way into the hospital. Tessa drove off in search of a parking space as Duncan made his way to the elevators and up to the third floor.

"Morning, tough guy," he greeted after knocking twice on the open door to announce his presence.

Richie sat up straighter in bed and smiled brightly at the prospect of having his visitor return. "Good morning, Mr. MacLeod," he greeted warmly. Then, as if he caught himself, he restrained the delight on his face and put it behind a mask of casual apathy.

"What brings you back here?" He asked, "It can't be the food."

Duncan smiled. Richie had said exactly what Duncan was hoping he'd say.

"Funny you're mentioning that," he said as he removed the takeout bag from the folds of his coat. He was smart enough this time to wear the shorter leather one.

"What is this, MacLeod?" Richie asked as Duncan set the bag on the food tray and slid the tray in front of him. "Cheeseburger and fries!" Richie abandoned his façade as pure, unadulterated joy shone on his young face. "You shouldn't have." He unwrapped the cheeseburger and shoved a large bite in his mouth. "Mmm, heavenly.""Easy there, Richie," Duncan directed. "If you choke on that I get in trouble."

Richie nodded because he was too busy stuffing his face to take time to speak. He practically inhaled the cheeseburger. Duncan meanwhile had poured a glass of water from the neglected picture on the tray. He handed it to Richie, who gulped it to wash the cheeseburger down.

"Thanks MacLeod. My taste buds are forever in your debt." Richie then began fishing fries out of the takeout bag.

"So how are you feeling?" Duncan asked after Richie had helped himself to several handfuls of fries. "I mean besides hungry."

Richie grinned sheepishly and half shrugged through chewing. "Much better now," he said as he poured himself another glass of water. "The doctors say my kidney output is almost back to normal," he added, figuring that Duncan would want the medical opinion as well.

"That's wonderful, Richie," said Duncan, masking his relief with happiness.

"They think they'll be able to let me outta here the day after tomorrow."

"Not a moment too soon, I bet," Duncan offered. What he really wanted to do was ask Richie where he would be going once he was discharged from the hospital, but he decided against it. He figured that Richie wouldn't just tell him, and undue strife between them was something to be avoided.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Richie said as he balled up the takeout bag and threw it at the trash bin on the other side of the room. It bounced off the rim of the basket and fell on the floor. "Damn."

Duncan got up and put it in the trash.

"Think I can make the cup?" Richie asked, holding the disposable water cup in readiness.

Duncan paused half-crouched from picking up bag and eyed Richie critically, waiting for him to make his decision. In the end he went for it, landing the cup squarely in the bin. "Swish!" He exclaimed, pumping a fist. "Oh yeah, nothing but net."

"Nice shot."

Startled, Richie looked over and saw Tessa standing in the doorway and suddenly all the amusement washed clean off his face. His expression was quickly schooled to neutrality as he looked quickly from Tessa to Duncan, then back again.

"Hey, sweetheart," said Duncan as he crossed the room to where she stood. He gave her a quick kiss then led her in by the hand to show Richie that he trusted her, and ergo that he should too. "

Richie Ryan, this is Tessa Noel. Tess, this is Richie." Duncan introduced the two as informally as he could, sensing the awkwardness of the situation. Tessa had been there that night when Richie broke in, although she was wearing a lot less clothing. And Richie had just been the petty thief.

"Hello, Richie," said Tessa, smiling. However the smile did not quite reach her eyes. The boy looked even younger than she remembered, and even smaller. Now she knew why Duncan had insisted they stop for takeout on the way over. She too shared his opinion that he looked like a lost little boy, in no way resembling the smooth-talking petty criminal Duncan had described he struck a bargain with at the police station. She also noted the lack of personal touches in the room. No one but Duncan had been visiting Richie, nor did they send him any well wishes. Indeed, it was difficult for her to remind herself that this neglected child was the same one who broke into their antique store a few weeks ago.

However, Richie picked up on the smallest hint of insincerity in her demeanor from a lifetime of practice, and unfortunately he missed the real reasons why.

"The lady from the antique store," Richie declared, his voice and expression remaining perfectly neutral.

"The boy from the antique store," Tessa echoed with a slight laugh. Richie surmised why she was here. He was supposed to apologize.

"What are you doing here?" He tried to keep the harsh sarcasm and suspicion out of his voice.

"I wanted to see for myself that you were ok," she answered.

At least that sentiment was sincere. Richie was quiet a moment, not knowing how to respond.

"She would have come by sooner, but she's been laid up with the flu," Duncan explained.

Richie looked at him with heavy scrutiny to see if he could spot a lie. He couldn't. "Well the doctors say I should be turning handsprings any day now," he informed her, his voice cool and distant.

"I'm glad to hear it," answered Tessa with a smile, ignoring Richie's tone.

Richie could tell that she meant it. He didn't know what to make of her or her presence here. MacLeod was easy to figure out: he had saved his life so naturally he wanted to check up on him. Also, he came to tell him the truth about what had happened back on Soldier's Bridge. Richie believed that Duncan felt that if he knew the truth he'd be more willing to keep quiet; or at least it would be easier for him to do so now that he knew what had really happened. But now MacLeod has brought his woman. What did she want? It can't be as simple as just checking up on him.

Richie didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing. He shifted his gaze from Duncan and Tessa and turned to look out the window. Duncan, sensing the slight tension in the air, felt it best to end the visit here.

"Get some rest," he said as he led Tessa out of the room.

Richie didn't answer him. He didn't even turn around.

* * *

"Did you see how bare his room was?" Tessa asked once they were out of earshot of Richie's room.

"I noticed," Duncan acknowledged as he swiftly made his way towards the elevator.

"I didn't remember him looking so young," she added once they had arrived.

Duncan pushed the 'down' button. "Well he was wearing a bulky jacket and a bandana at the time," he said. "And I do recall you telling me that he was 'just a boy.'"

Just then the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. Duncan hit the button for the first floor.

"Well you were about to cut his head off at the time!" Tessa defended. "And even still, he looked a lot younger in that hospital bed than he did that night in the store."

"Well I'd sensed other immortals about and there he was playing with swords," Duncan said in his defense. "Of course, by the time I noticed the inexperienced way he held the sword and the real fear in his eyes, I didn't have time to do anything before our other guests arrived."

Duncan hated having to lie to Tessa, but Slan's immortal presence he washed out Richie's weaker pre-immortal one. He had truly thought that Richie was a full-fledged immortal. Of course, he couldn't tell Tessa that without revealing who Richie was, and he hadn't even considered that possibility yet.

"Who'd have thought that it was just a random coincidence," said Tessa with a slight laugh.

"Amen to that," Duncan agreed as the elevator doors opened again. The two of them made their way out of the hospital hand in hand. "So where'd you park?" He asked as soon as they hit the parking lot.

"This way," Tessa said as she guided him through the rows of cars to the back left corner of the lot.

"I don't think you could have parked any further away if you tried," said Duncan once they finally reached the car.

"The lot was full," Tessa stated plainly as she unlocked the door and climbed in. Then she reached across and unlocked the passenger side so Duncan could get in also.

"So what do you think of our little thief?" Duncan asked finally. They had driven most of the way in amicable silence.

"Well aside from the fact that he doesn't look eighteen or even capable of bypassing our alarm the way he did?" Tessa answered as though she was stating the obvious. Then she sighed slightly to give the question more serious consideration. "I don't think he's eating right."

"Yeah I picked up on that," Duncan agreed. Silence resumed once more, but only briefly.

"Why?" Tessa asked suspiciously, regarding her lover with as much scrutiny as possible in her peripheral vision.

"Why what?" Duncan asked, trying his best not to sound self-incriminating.

"Why did you ask me what I thought?" She asked, her voice losing none of its questioning tone.

"Well, you insisted on going to see him," said Duncan. "I was just wondering if he's what you expected."

"Well, he isn't what I expected," Tessa admitted after a brief pause. "I was expecting—well I don't know what I was expecting, but he certainly wasn't it."

"I know what you mean," Duncan agreed. Silence returned, but again, only briefly.

"So are you going to tell me the other reason?" Tessa asked as she pulled into the back lot of the antique store.

"What other reason?" Duncan asked innocently as he got out of the car.

"The other reason you're so interested in what I think of Robby Ryan."

"Richie," Duncan corrected.

Tessa groaned in frustration. "Fine. Why are you so interested in _Richie_ Ryan?"

"Hey, don't get mad at me just because you didn't remember his name," Duncan protested as they entered through the back into Tessa's workshop.

"I'm not mad!" Tessa snapped.

Duncan arched an eyebrow at her.

Tessa took a deep, calming breath before beginning again. "Look, Duncan. I've known you for twelve years. I know that might not seem like a long time to your four hundred year old Scottish ass, but it is for me. I know you well enough to know when you've got something on your mind. You gave yourself away when you asked me about Richie. Now are you going to tell me what it is?"

Duncan sighed and took her into his arms. After a quick embrace the separated so that he could look her in the eyes.

"Am I really that predictable?" He asked sincerely, his lips faintly quirking into a smile.

Whatever anger Tessa felt melted away as she smiled at him. "You've become a creature of habit, Duncan MacLeod," she announced.

Without warning, Duncan took her back into his arms and kissed her passionately, dipping her back slightly as she melted into his embrace.

"Did you see that coming?" He asked when their lips parted. He still held her at the awkward angle.

Tessa took a moment to regain her composure. "Men are always thinking about sex, Duncan," Tessa answered with an impish grin. "Every woman knows that, and expects it."

Duncan just shook his head and kissed her again.

"Well if you know what's going to happen, then this is your last chance to object," he said, tracing kisses down her neck.

"When in twelve years have I ever objected?" Tessa asked, running her fingers through his hair, pulling out his hair tie.

"I know," said Duncan as he lowered her to the floor. "You're so predictable."

The question Duncan was hesitating to ask and the answers that Tessa was seeking were forgotten as they once again gave into their passions.

* * *

"You never did tell me why you're so interested in Richie," Tessa reminded Duncan as she began clearing the table. Tonight was his turn to cook, so it was her turn to do the dishes.

Duncan sighed as he stood. "You wash, I'll dry," he said, bringing the rest of the dishes over to the sink and grabbing a dishtowel.

"So, about Richie?" Tessa asked again, handing him a glass.

Duncan wiped it down and put it back in the cabinet where it belonged. He knew that he had to approach Tessa with this because she'd be furious if he acted without consulting her first. However, that didn't make asking her any easier.

"Right, about Richie," he said, taking a plate from Tessa to dry and thinking of the best way to broach the subject. "Well, he's eighteen now. That makes him a legal adult."

"Aside from the fact that he in no way looks his age, Duncan, what's your point?" She asked as she handed him another glass.

"Well being an underage thief is one thing. They seal your records when you turn eighteen. It's like getting a clean slate."

"Yes, I am familiar with the American judiciary system," Tessa informed him disinterestedly as she handed him a bowl.

"Well, if he continues down this path, he'll eventually be caught. He could easily do ten years or more if he broke into some jewelry store the way he broke in here."

"I'm sure Richie's very well aware of that fact, Duncan," Tessa declared as she handed him another plate. "None of this explains your keen interest in his welfare."

"Oh I know he's aware of it, Tess," Duncan admitted. "But I don't think that means he's going to quit stealing."

Tessa put the down the serving plate she was scrubbing and turned to face her lover.

"You saw the boy, Tess. Does he look like the type that would survive in prison?"

"It would teach the boy not to break the law," she said matter-of-factly.

"Why do you think he steals, Tess?" Duncan asked in the tone of one who already knows the answer.

"Because he was a minor living as a ward of the state, and he knew that the DSS would try and cover his tracks as best they could because it helps his chance at fostering or adoption, which is what's best for them."

Duncan was momentarily thrown by the logic to her explanation.

"So you think he's stealing because he can get away with it?" He asked at last.

"Don't you?" Tessa asked in return.

"But why stealing? What's the allure?"

"Duncan, I know it's been a long time since you were a teenager, but they are known to do things for the simple fact that they can get away with them."

Duncan sighed; she had a point.

"Tessa, the boy grew up a ward of the state, in and out of foster homes. You say that teenagers do things just because they can, and I agree with you. Teenagers who don't like the way their life is going blame the authority figures around them. Then the blame turns into rebellion."

"What do you mean?" Tessa asked, needing clarification.

"Some things haven't changed in four hundred years," Duncan said with surprising sincerity. "Tess, the boy's angry, angry at his parents for not being there, angry at the DSS for shipping him between foster families, angry at the foster families for not being a real family, and for any number of other reasons."

"How do you know so much about his life?" Tessa questioned.

"Connor checked him out," Duncan admitted finally.

"Connor?"

"I didn't ask him to," Duncan defended. "But, like you said, I've become a creature of habit."

"Connor knew you'd want to help the boy," said Tessa in realization.

Duncan just grinned and half shrugged, not refuting the statement. "After what Connor told me about him, and after talking to him these past few days… Well, I don't think he's a hardened criminal by any means."

"He's well on his way," Tessa added.

"Yes he is," Duncan conceded. "He's just a kid who never caught a break in his life. He's never had a real home or a real family. He's angry at the world and probably has abysmal self esteem on top of it."

"He seemed confident enough to me," Tessa contradicted.

"Honestly Tessa, do you think that there was more substance there than bravado?" Tessa sighed, shaking her head after a moment's pause. She agreed with Duncan on that.

"So what are you saying?" She asked, hoping that Duncan would just come right out with what she was expecting him to say.

Duncan sighed. It was now or never.

"I'm saying that Richie's not a bad kid. He's just never really been given a chance to be anything other than what his self esteem and probably his foster families, teachers, and the police have told him he was: worthless, and then a worthless criminal. He's spent his life living to those expectations because that's all he's been given."

"I've taken introductory psychology courses too, Duncan," Tessa interjected lovingly but still impatiently.

"Well, now that he's eighteen all the rules have changed. The next guy isn't going to withhold charges because he wants Richie to keep his mouth shut about a few swordfights," Duncan told her plainly, continuing as though Tessa hadn't interrupted him. "And he doesn't deserve that."

"He deserves the consequences for his actions, Duncan, like everyone else," Tessa told him just as plainly.

"Yes," Duncan admitted, "But I think that if given the chance he'll decide not to take such risky actions."

Tessa sighed. She'd been right. "And you want to give him that chance," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I want to offer him a job working in the store."

Tessa's eyes widened in disbelief.

"He'll work off what he owes us for the window and the alarm, doesn't that sound appropriate?" Duncan appealed to her sense of justice.

"Duncan, the boy's a thief!" Tessa objected. "You're just going to give him free reign of the store he tried to rob? How do you know he won't just decide to liberate some of our merchandise once the coast is clear?"

"I'm not going to give him free reign of the store," Duncan clarified, sounding like Tessa had just insulted his intelligence. "He'll probably hate the job anyway. But since he's eighteen he'll need to get the money to pay rent somehow, and I'd rather that it be legitimate."

"So he can get a job somewhere," said Tessa.

"Who would hire him at a job that pays enough to live off of? Or that would give him enough hours if it did? He'd still be stealing to make up for the difference."

"So you'll give him a job and pay him generously to do it? Who'd have thought that attempting to rip off Duncan MacLeod would be so profitable," Tessa said with mild sarcasm.

Duncan sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. "Only long enough for him to build a decent resume reference. Then he'll probably apply for another job somewhere that's more to his tastes."

"You really have your heart set on helping this boy," Tessa said, shaking her head.

"Don't you?" Duncan asked, appealing to her sympathies this time.

"You can't right all the wrongs of the world, you know," she said. The honest sincerity in her voice was compelling.

"Not ever wrong," he conceded. "Just this one."

Tessa laughed and shook her head again. Duncan scooped her up and twirled her around, kissing her passionately before putting her down. After twelve years Tessa had become a creature of habit as well. He knew when she had agreed to something.

Now the only problem was convincing Richie.

* * *

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), the next day Tessa had an appointment with the bicentennial committee. She was up for the commission on a commemorative sculpture to honor the past two hundred years of philanthropy by Seacouver's founding family (even though the city itself was considerably younger than that). That left Duncan to watch the store all day. After being closed for several days in a row with no advanced notice, it was not a good idea to close it again today. Duncan decided that Richie could wait until tomorrow.

A quick phone call to the hospital the next day confirmed that Richie was scheduled for discharge that morning. Duncan grabbed a pair of old sweats and put them in a plastic bag, figuring that Richie didn't have a change of clothes and would therefore have to manage to get from the hospital to wherever he lived in a hospital gown. Not a pleasant prospect by any means. He left Tessa in charge of the store and headed for the hospital.

He arrived in time to see Richie attempting to put his sneakers on, but he couldn't bend down quite far enough to tie the laces with the stitches in.

"Knock-knock," Duncan called out as he entered.

Richie turned around in mild surprise. Since Duncan hadn't visited him yesterday Richie figured that he was done taking an interest in him. After all Duncan had no real responsibility to him. It was nice that he cared enough to visit the first few times to be sure that Richie would pull through and all that. Once he had assurances that he would be just fine, what other reason could he possibly have for visiting him?

"Hey Mr. MacLeod," Richie answered, abandoning the efforts to tie his shoes. He stood up and turned around to face Duncan across the bed.

Duncan tried not to smile; Richie was wearing two hospital gowns tied together. "They've finally discharged me."

"Congratulations," said Duncan as he put the bag on the bed.

"What's that?" Richie asked, indicating the bag.

"Well I figured that your clothes wouldn't have survived your trip to the ER," Duncan explained as Richie looked in the bag. "They'll probably be a little big on you, but it beats trying to get across town dressed like that."

Richie blushed slightly when Duncan pointed out his attire.

"Well, go on." Richie gave Duncan a look that was somehow a combination of relief, suspicion, and gratitude as he headed into the bathroom to change into the sweats. Duncan noted how incredibly expressive the boys face and eyes could be.

"Just a little big, MacLeod," he said amusedly when he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. The pant legs hung on the floor several inches to spite how high Richie had the waist pulled. The waist itself was also too big, but the elastic should keep the pants from falling down. The sweatshirt looked baggy because Richie's shoulders were nowhere near as broad as the Hghlander's, and the sleeves practically covered his hands. If anything they made the boy look even smaller than he already was.

"Yeah," Duncan agreed. "But not nearly as drafty."

That brokered a laugh that they both shared.

"Thank you," Richie said with surprising earnest.

"You're welcome," Duncan replied, slightly surprised and trying not to let it show. "Well, let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"You've been discharged, I take that to mean that you don't have to hang around the hospital anymore," said Duncan in a slightly sarcastic tone.

"Yes, but…" Richie faltered, suddenly unsure of himself and the man in front of him.

Duncan sighed. Was it so hard for Richie to assume that people might just want to help him? "I'll give you a ride," Duncan offered, slightly exasperated.

"You don't have to," Richie said almost immediately. "I can take the bus."

"I don't see any change lying around. How were you going to afford it?" Duncan challenged.

"Hey, I can panhandle for it," Richie defended.

"I'm sure you can, now let's go," said Duncan as he turned around and headed for the door. He was not going to take no for an answer.

"Hey, look, Mr. MacLeod," Richie tried again, catching up to him. "If you wanna loan me fifty cents for the bus that's fine. You don't need to give me a ride."

Duncan turned around and tried his best to look patient. "The bus will bounce you around too much. You don't want to pull your stitches and wind up having to come back here, do you?"

Richie looked thoroughly miserable before hanging his head in defeat.

"Good, now let's go."

Duncan led them out of the hospital and to the parking lot. Thankfully he was able to park a bit closer this time.

"You've had this thing cleaned," Richie said when he climbed into the T-bird on the passenger side. "I can smell it."

"Well I had to get the blood stains out of it," Duncan said plainly as he started the engine. "Now, where can I drop you?"

"Head over towards Pauling," Richie directed.

Duncan shifted the car in gear and did as he was instructed. They spent the twenty-minute drive in amicable silence.

"Ok, Pauling," Duncan said as he stopped at a red light. "Now where?"

"Uh, where is this?" Richie looked around to get his bearings. "River Street," he said, noticing the signs. "Left."

Duncan flicked on his turn signal and went left as soon as the light changed.

"Up two more blocks," Richie directed. Duncan took them through two more traffic lights. "It's 254, the red townhouse on the right here."

Duncan pulled over in front of the townhouse grateful that he didn't need to parallel-park.

"This is your apartment?" Duncan asked, surveying the building. To say that it was in desperate need of renovations was an understatement.

"Yeah, upstairs," Richie admitted. "The landlord lives on the first floor."

Duncan merely nodded. "When do you get your stitches out?"

"Week from tomorrow," Richie answered. "But don't even think about it. I can find my own ride to the hospital."

"Sure you can," Duncan agreed amicably. He noticed how Richie was assuming that he wanted to help him. That's a start.

"Look, mister," Richie began, "you've been really great to me, and I know I don't deserve it. But really, I don't need any more help. I can take care of myself." He tried his best to get his point across without sounding ungrateful.

"Of course," said Duncan. He wasn't going to point out the fact that Richie was recently a thief who gets caught and a victim of gangland violence.

Richie noted the disbelief in Duncan's voice but didn't quite feel like arguing the point. "Well, thanks for the lift," he said instead. "See ya round, Mr. MacLeod."

Unfortunately Richie did the absolute worst thing he could have done in that situation. The T-bird top was down, so Richie decided to vault over the car door without opening it. He landed on the sidewalk with a grace and agility that Duncan would have thought impossible from an injured boy. That was, of course, until Richie's face contorted in pain and he collapsed in a heap. Duncan quickly climbed over the seats and jumped over the car door, landing next to Richie.

"You know, that's what doors are for," he said, squatting down next to Richie.

Richie just glared at him through gritted teeth as he clutched his midsection.

"Let me see," Duncan said gently.

Richie continued glared suspiciously for a moment longer before moving his hands out of the way. He flinched slightly in reflex when Duncan lifted the sweatshirt to examine the wound. This was not unnoticed.

"Well, you aggravated it, but you didn't pull the stitches," Duncan informed him, prodding the surrounding skin gently with his fingers.

Richie just grunted.

"I don't think you pulled the internal stitches, but we should take you back to the hospital, just to be sure."

"No way, man." Richie insisted. "No more hospitals!" He tried to sit up straighter but was prevented by pain.

"Are you sure?" Asked Duncan as he lowered the sweatshirt.

"I just want to sleep in my own bed," Richie said, or rather, he whined. At Duncan's skeptical look he added: "If I were bleeding inside, trust me, I'd feel it. And besides, there'd be bruising."

Duncan nodded through his surprise at Richie's statement. He was correct, but the only way he'd know that was if he'd experienced it before. Duncan was at the point where he could tell you exactly which organ or major blood vessel was damaged, but then he's had four hundred years of practice.

"Ok," Duncan agreed at last. He offered Richie both hands, which the teenager took after only a brief hesitation. Duncan pulled him to his feet almost effortlessly. Richie reclined against the side of the car to catch his breath. Duncan gave him the moment's pause. "Feel better?" He asked at length.

"Yeah," Richie admitted, his breathing returning to normal. "That probably wasn't the smartest stunt to pull," he added a moment later, rather sheepishly.

"No kidding," Duncan chided rather forcefully. Quickly he changed tactics. "You've got to remember that you're still injured," he added, much more gently this time.

"I'll work on that," Richie conceded, laughing slightly until the pain forced him to stop.

"Now, you said you apartment is on the second floor?"

Richie nodded. "Yeah."

Duncan held his arm out to the teenager, who appeared to weigh the decision to take it as though it were life and death. With a heavy sigh he took Duncan's arm while refusing to meet his eye. With the offered help he hobbled over to the front door, taking the few front steps slowly and one at a time, putting nearly all his weight on Duncan's arm, which the Highlander keep rigid like a crutch.

"Front door's unlocked during the day," said Richie, about to grab the doorknob, but Duncan beat him to it. What they found on the inside was a dimly lit staircase and a narrow hallway that ended with a door, probably to the landlord's apartment. The stairs were too narrow for the both of them to stand side by side, so Duncan stood slightly behind Richie, who was using both Duncan's arm and the handrail to help himself climb the stairs.

They had made it about a quarter of the way there when suddenly Richie's hand shot away from the railing. Duncan had to suddenly brace himself against the wall to keep from losing his balance and taking them both tumbling down the stairs.

"Splinter," Richie said, showing Duncan his hand the way a five-year-old shows off such injuries.

Duncan's glare softened at that. "Right," he said, taking Richie's hand and trying to hold it in better light. "I can't see it well enough from here," he admitted. "You might want to invest in a light for the hallway."

"It's on my to-do list," Richie said dismissively. He tried to use Duncan's arm to help him up the stairs, but quickly discovered that they were too steep for him to get the leverage he needed. Before he could say anything, however, Duncan scooped him up into his arms and proceeded to carry him up the stairs.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Richie protested.

"What's it look like?"

"Hey, put me down!"

"Sure thing tough guy." Duncan eased Richie down on the landing at the top of the staircase. They had fully ascended the stairs while Richie had been protesting.

Duncan tried the knob, but the door was locked. He looked expectantly at Richie, who leaned his head against the door in defeat.

"Romeo and them, they took my wallet. My key was in it."

"They have a key to your apartment?" Duncan asked, concerned.

"Yeah, but they don't know where I live," Richie reassured. "I guess I have to go bug the landlord for the spare. I hope he's home."

Duncan sighed heavily in exasperation. "Wait," he said as he pulled out his own wallet. He then proceeded to deftly pick the lock with a credit card.

"Wow man, you got that on the first try!" Richie was highly impressed.

Duncan hated the irony but didn't see that he had much choice. He nearly told Richie that all he has to do is practice at something to get good at it, but the reality of what it was they were referring to quickly set in and Duncan changed his mind in the last minute. Instead he turned the knob and swung the door open. Richie hobbled inside and turned on the light in the kitchen.

Duncan was surprised to see a cluttered order about the place, even though it appeared to not have been thoroughly cleaned in eons. The dishes were clean and dry on the drying rack, there was no trash or leftover food lying around, and even the small table was relatively clear. The place didn't smell too appealing, but it wasn't overpowering. Duncan surmised it to be mold.

"I'd offer you a drink, but I'm afraid I'm down to my last six-pack," Richie told him. "Of soda," he added quickly upon seeing the look on Duncan's face. "Look for yourself," he said as he swung open the refrigerator door.

Duncan saw that the boy wasn't lying. There was a six-pack of store brand discount cola sitting there, next to a quarter of a gallon of milk that had another two days before going bad. Other than that the fridge was bare.

"So I haven't gone shopping yet," Richie offered when Duncan shut the refrigerator door. He opened the freezer door and was relieved to see a few TV dinners and a gallon of ice cream. They boy was only eating meager meals, but at least he wasn't starving.

"I can see that," Duncan said as he shut the door. "You have this place all to yourself?"

"Yeah," Richie said with a hint of pride. "Happened kind of accidentally, actually. My last foster father was a real winner. I'd only been with him three months. I came home one night, and found him lying on the kitchen floor. Turns out his liver couldn't handle his drinking problem."

Duncan blinked. "You mean he's dead?"

"Yep," said Richie, not showing a bit of remorse. "Guy was an asshole, used the foster checks to buy beer so he could use his paychecks for the rent and stuff. Left me on my own to do the shopping. If I didn't buy food, and cook it, we wouldn't eat. He also trashed the place. That's the smell of stale beer."

Duncan nodded, finally being able to place the one smell he couldn't identify when he entered.

"I cleaned up as best I could," Richie continued. "A mop is also on my to-do list though. Anyway, his equally alcoholic brother came by a while later. His family made all the arrangements. Didn't even notice that I was living here. Thought I was just an errand boy or something. They didn't call the DSS, and neither did I."

"You mean no one knew that your foster father was dead?" Duncan asked, shocked but not all that surprised.

"Not at first," said Richie. "I had barely two months before I turned eighteen. I was able to convince the landlord to transfer my name to the lease. He's been pretty lenient with the rent, too. I pay him what I can when I can. It equals the grand total each month, but I can't afford to give it to him in a lump sum and he's cool with that."

"What about social services?" Duncan asked.

"Oh them?" Richie asked dismissively. "Somebody must have forgotten to forward them the memo. They showed up here the day after I turned eighteen. I showed them my name on the lease and legally told them to get lost or I'd call the cops on them for trespassing and harassment," he finished with a grin.

"You got lucky," Duncan told him.

Richie couldn't read his tone of voice. "Tell me about it," he agreed.

Duncan sighed. Time to bring up the matter of Richie's employment.

"Well you must not have a steady job or else you'd have a set rent schedule."

Richie eyed him suspiciously, suddenly on the defensive. "I do odd jobs for people, here and there," he said elusively, not even sure why he bothered to dignify that comment with an answer.

"What sort of odd jobs?" Duncan persisted. Richie seriously debated telling him to fuck off, but decided against it. After all, he owed the man his life.

"I'm pretty good with cars," he offered. "And lots of people will pay what they can for a strong back for an afternoon."

Duncan nodded. He'd seen the boy's rap sheet. 'Good with cars' meant stealing stereos and hubcaps and his 'strong back' was more often used to carry the loot from petty theft. There were also many reported incidents of assault, mostly for street fighting. Duncan assumed it was for incidents like the one a few days ago, and that the boy was short tempered.

"Well," he said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a business card. "If you decide you're in the market for steady employment…"

After a brief pause Richie took the card offered to him, inspecting it briefly before putting it on the table. "What do you want?" He asked suspiciously.

"I could use a hand around the store," Duncan explained. "A strong back, as you put it."

Richie still looked skeptical.

"You could work off the window and the alarm," he continued. "I'll pay you of course."

"Why are you doing this?" Richie asked seriously after a moment's pause.

"Well, like I'm in the market for a store hand, and you're in the market for a steady job."

"So naturally you offer it to me," said Richie skeptically.

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Richie repeated as though Duncan had voiced the stupidest question on earth. "I'm the thief who tried to rob you, remember?"

"Which is why I said you'd also be working off what you did to my window and alarm system," Duncan reminded him. He couldn't keep from smiling.

"What's to stop me from just robbing you blind while your back is turned?" Richie challenged.

"You try that again, as an adult, and the courts will try _you_, as an adult. You could do ten years for that." Duncan's tone was serious and held a hint of warning. "And besides, you won't do it. You need the steady, _legitimate_ income, and you owe me."

"You'd be a fool to trust me," Richie informed him, favoring the linoleum over eye contact.

"And you'd be a fool not to take the job," Duncan countered with a smirk.

There was a brief, awkward pause.

"Look, take a few days to rest and recover," Duncan said at length. "If you want the job, we open at eight a.m. on Monday. Show up any time before six."

"You're serious, aren't you," said Richie quietly, looking up.

Duncan grinned. "Gave you a business card, didn't I?"

Richie laughed slightly.

"Take it easy," Duncan directed, heading for the door. "Hopefully I'll see you Monday. If not, well, it's your choice." Duncan was about to pull the door shut behind him when he turned back. "You have my number there if you need anything."

"Right," said Richie absently. "Thanks."

"No problem."

With that Duncan shut the door and headed back down to the T-bird, fairly certain that he would see Richie at the store at some point on Monday.


	4. Working Boy

Richie felt the last bump no better or worse than the umpteen before it. By now his sore midsection was just one large cacophony of the many different types of pain. As the rest of his body went uncomfortably numb, Richie mused that he could accurately describe about eight distinct breeds of pain the way one catalogues flavors of ice cream.

The bus finally stopped. That had been the longest stretch yet. Richie wondered if he'd even have the strength to stand once the bus hit his stop, which thankfully should be the next one. Checking his watch he noted that it was just past ten thirty. MacLeod said to show up anytime between eight and six, so Richie wasn't worried about it.

As the bus pulled away from the curb to continue on its merry way over the disgustingly dip and pothole-filled roads of Seacouver, Richie once again found himself reviewing in his mind the strange course of events that lead him to be suffering through such torture on his way to his first potential legitimate employment in over two years.

It all started shortly after his foster father died. The rent was due and Richie had no money to pay it. He needed some quick cash or else it was the streets. He'd tried the streets. Just about _anything_ was preferable to the streets. So he needed to lay his hands on three hundred bucks in two days, and he was stuck getting it the old fashioned way: stealing. He would need to rip out nearly twenty car stereos to cover that bill, but the more you bring to a fence, the less that fence will pay you. Supply and demand, or something like that. Richie considered stealing a car, but everyone knows the chop-shop types are considerably hazardous to your health. That left one option: good old fashioned B & E.

After half a day of scouting Richie settled on what should have been the perfect score: MacLeod and Noel Antiques. It was off in the heights, far from his usual thievery stomping grounds. The owners ran the store like clockwork, eight to six Monday through Friday, noon to five Saturdays, and closed Sundays. That meant that Sunday night there should have been no one around. He recognized the warning label sticker on the door and windows as being from the same alarm company as most other more lucrative businesses in Seacouver, which meant that he was an old hand at bypassing it. Show up Sunday night sometime and be in and out in an hour or so. It was the perfect heist despite its last minute planning.

Richie had gone to the store that night confident in his abilities and positive that he would be able to fence whatever he procured for at least the three hundred he owed in rent. New shoes were a must for the rest of the money, as were grocery shopping and laundry. Yes sir, Richie Ryan would have it made for at least two weeks after that night, and that was something to motivate any decent human being towards a life of (mostly non-violent) crime.

But alas, you know what they say about that which seems too good to be true.

Richie bypassed the alarm and entered the store with a practiced ease. Then he committed the first of several mistakes. The first mistake was to spend a good few minutes just browsing, generally admiring the merchandise and swearing the one day he, Richie Ryan, would be able to afford the prices on some of those things. Then he committed his second mistake. The antique jewelry was just too tempting. If he made enough from the fence of the rest of it perhaps he'd keep one or two items. He didn't have a girlfriend at the moment, but who knows? _Girls are into jewelry and stuff, right?_

Regardless of his intentions with the jewelry he made the mistake of putting the pieces in his pockets. _What's rule number one Richie? Never ever, ever stash loot on your person!_ Then he came to his senses and began loading his bag with the smaller, more portable things. He'd filled his bag with all that would fit and began trying to shift the contents so that he could zip it shut when he made mistake the third. He saw the sword in the display case and just couldn't resist. He'd always been drawn to swashbuckling pirate flicks, and adventure stories like _The Three Musketeers_ with lots of sword fighting. What would the harm be if he decided to play with the sword for a while?

Richie couldn't decide what his biggest mistake was. Was it taking too long in the store thus making him still around when the shit hit the fan? Was it being stupid enough to get caught with jewelry from the store in his pockets? Was it being stupid enough to not avoid the patrol car? Was it deciding to take even more time by playing with the sword?

No, sadly. None of these came close to the ultimate Darwinian mistake: not bothering to check the building tenants to learn whether or not the owners lived upstairs.

Richie surmised that he just wasn't as good a thief as he previously thought, which really didn't come as a big surprise. Richie Ryan was never as good at anything as he liked to think that he was, or rather, as he liked to foolishly hope that he was. According to the world, for all his life, Richie Ryan was never very good at anything.

And so the inevitable happened. He'd committed too many mistakes to not get caught. However, getting caught by a half-dressed man with a pony tale wielding a drawn sword wasn't what he had in mind, and decapitation seemed to be a bit strong of a punishment for petty theft. Of course, this MacLeod character explained to him that he was expecting some psycho to come and try to kill him with a sword, so naturally he sees a punk kid playing with one in his store late at night and it's your classic Twilight-Zone case of mistaken identity. Sure MacLeod had a plausible explanation, but that didn't change what he saw happen that night.

Richie mused that he went from being confronted and threatened with decapitation to being mostly forgotten as that sword-wielding psycho in a mask MacLeod was expecting decided to drop in, literally. Richie should have left then, leave the loot and take off running. Unfortunately, he was too paralyzed with both fear and curiosity to take his eyes away from the scene in front of him. That's how he failed to notice Sir Lancelot enter, probably through the same window. Now there were three guys with swords taunting each other and preparing to fight.

If the foster care system taught Richie anything it was that two's company, three's a crowd, and four's, well, unsanitary. Granted that was for bed-sharing arrangements and not guys playing with swords, but the point's the same. Richie, who'd been mostly forgotten as the other two sword-baring lunatics showed up, finally left the sword and the loot and made a break for it.

Too bad he wasn't good enough to evade the cops. He told them what happened, leaving out the part where he was the first one to break in of course, but no one believed him. _Of course not, Ryan. Why would anyone believe you?_ He was sure he'd be spending the rest of seventeen in juvie until the cops told him that Mr. MacLeod wasn't going to press charges. As curious as Richie was, he wasn't going to question it. He was given a get out of jail free card, and he wasn't about to look the mysterious, sword-wielding gift horse in the mouth.

He had even half-convinced himself that the police were right and that he was making the whole thing up to cover his tracks. That was, of course, until MacLeod came to see him. Richie noticed that the man didn't appear nearly as intimidating with a shirt on and without the sword. He did note that the man was wearing a long coat, capable of concealing such a weapon, but the guy would be crazy to try anything in the middle of the police station.

That's when MacLeod offered him the deal: his silence in exchange for his freedom. Richie did his best to sound confident and un-intimidated, but doubted if it worked. They could always see right through that smooth-taking exterior. He wondered why he kept the front up sometimes, but then, sometimes, it was all he had.

Richie took the deal and walked out of the police station a free man. However, instead of focusing on his incredibly out-of-character good fortune he had another thing to worry about: he still needed to come up with three hundred dollars, and the deadline was tomorrow. He didn't have time to steal enough _and_ meet with his fence. That left him with just one choice, and it was either take that choice or hit the streets again. He had just gotten the apartment livable after his waste of space of a foster father had untimely kicked the bucket, and he was loath to leave the place now. He was finally legally allowed to be on his own (as long as DSS didn't find out yet). He didn't want to go back to living in shelters, warehouses, and other dives, not if he could help it.

So Richie took what was probably the last, desperate measure of a desperate man. He went to see Romeo. At one point Richie contemplated running with the gang, they had provided him with a place to live when he ran away from foster homes. However, he was never there long enough to fully partake of the initiation. He wasn't an actual member, but would be soon enough if Romeo had his way.

The gang was currently holding up in one of the numerous rousted drug-houses. After the junkies are busted and cleared away, the vagrants and gangs move in. The Nickel Bombers had taken over one that was similar to the townhouse Richie and his landlord lived in. Being a gang member meant that you were allowed free reign of the house. Everyone forcibly pooled their resources. Because they didn't use banks, Romeo had on average nearly two thousand dollars stashed in various places inside the house. Richie knew that he could convince Romeo to loan him the three hundred, even though the interest would be astronomical. He'd worry about paying Romeo back later; he had rent to pay by tomorrow.

As expected, convincing Romeo to lend him the money was easy enough. He just had to come up with five hundred by the end of the next month or else there would be 'consequences'. Richie didn't exactly know what those consequences were, but he could guess. At any rate, he got the rent payment to his landlord on time. He also explained to him that he'd been having difficulty keeping a steady income. The landlord was fairly lenient, telling him that if he got at least two hundred of the current month's rent in by the due date then the remaining hundred could be paid over the course of the next month. Along with, of course, the lump sum of two hundred dollars for the current month. Richie could live with that. It meant that he only needed to come up with seven hundred dollars by the end of the next month.

However, the problem with the youth of today is the inherent desire to procrastinate, and Richie wore that label like a badge of honor. He was just hanging out outside the pizza parlor (after bumming money from Angie for a slice) when Sir Lancelot stopped at the light. Being ever-curious, probably too much so for his own good, Richie decided to follow him. Luckily the car hit just about every streetlight as it made its way to its destination, so it wasn't hard for Richie to follow. Fifteen minutes of stop-and-go later and Richie found himself in the warehouse district. Lancelot got out of the car, wearing a potentially sword-concealing trench coat, and went into one of the warehouses. A quick survey of the layout revealed that his car wasn't the only one parked there. It was keeping company with a black T-bird.

Richie stayed hidden for a while, making sure that no one else was going to either arrive or suddenly leave the warehouse and catch him. When he was certain that the coast was clear, he approached the warehouse cautiously, hearing strange sounds emanating from within. One look inside and Richie was both surprised and not surprised at what he found there. Mr. MacLeod was duking it out with Sir Lancelot in a very intense round of swordplay. Richie remembered seeing fencing on TV during the Olympics, and this certainly didn't look like that. This was fast-paced and brutal, only neither of them were wearing protective gear. Only after picking up snatches of friendly banter during the match did Richie realize that they were only sparring as opposed to dueling to the death. Of course MacLeod had an explanation for that, too, but at the time…

Richie then reasoned that the masked lunatic had to be the 'bad guy.' He knew that one of these two were going to face him eventually, and he staked his money on Sir Lancelot, hearing him attest adamantly that the fight should be his. Knowing every step of the way that it was a very bad idea and that his curiosity could probably get him killed, Richie decided to continue to follow Lancelot in the hopes of seeing a showdown with the masked one.

Richie didn't have to wait long before being proven correct. After tracking him back to the antique store, Richie decided to hide in the trunk of his Cadillac. They wound up at Soldier's Bridge. Richie watched as Lancelot defeated the masked one, only to be shot and tumble from the bridge. That was a slap in the face. Richie had seen the guy practice with MacLeod and figured he was pretty good. He also began experiencing what he would later learn the Watcher's call the 'occupational hazard,' wherein you begin to root for the guy you're watching. It bothered him more than he liked to admit that he thought he'd just witnessed Lancelot's death, which was handed to him by sneaky and underhanded means.

However, Richie didn't have time to feel remorse. Almost as soon as Lancelot hit the water MacLeod showed up. He and the masked one went at it, and once again the masked one was defeated. This time he didn't have any tricks up his sleeves, and MacLeod was proven victorious. Richie had expected and even hoped for this outcome, but he wasn't at all prepared for what MacLeod did next. He made good on the threat he had accidentally issued to Richie: he cut off the masked one's head.

Now Richie had seen people shot, seen them stabbed, seen junkies dying of withdraw and DTs; he's seen the results of brutal gang fights and even harsher cases of domestic violence. He'd even been the brunt of some of it himself. Yet never, in all his life, had he seen such a brutal slaying. He'd known that once people had been shot, or stabbed, or beaten, that they were probably dead or dying, but he made it a habit of never sticking around to find out. Even when Lancelot fell, he screamed bloody murder as he went. Richie knew he was probably dead; but that was just it. _Probably_ dead. There was no mistaking it this time, and no way to live in denial of the facts: the masked on was dead, MacLeod chopped off his head.

Seeing two murders back to back like that would affect anyone, even those who preferred that their live to date had desensitized them to anything else it could throw at them. Of course MacLeod has a plausible explanation for it all, and he had seen with his own eyes Lancelot walk away. MacLeod had beheaded the masked one in self-defense, or so he claimed, and for revenge, which Richie believed wholeheartedly. He had never had a cousin, but he surmised that if he did, he'd want to avenge his murder, too. Looking back on it, he briefly felt a twang of longing and regret for that type of family. He didn't have anyone he cared enough about to engage in combat to the death in order to avenge them, nor did he have anyone who cared that much about him. Anyone who might have fit that bill was already dead. Even if he joined Romeo's gang, he still wouldn't have that. It was something he had always wanted, and something he surmised that he would never truly have.

The one thing that MacLeod failed to explain away was the strange lightning storm that blinked into existence once the masked one was beheaded and died shortly thereafter. MacLeod said that there was an explanation, but that he wasn't ready to hear it. Richie tried to keep himself from wondering what it was. Just like the time he walked in on two foster parents having sex, there are some things one is better off not knowing until the proper time.

The other thing Richie wasn't sure of was why he didn't leave after MacLeod spotted him. Right after the lightning died away MacLeod looked directly at him. Richie couldn't remember a time he had ever been so scared (or rather, he refused to remember any previous times when he had been so scared). Thankfully MacLeod said and did nothing, except of course throw himself off the bridge, still carrying his sword. Richie didn't know why he didn't just up and run at that point. For some reason he figured that MacLeod went diving for Lancelot's body, and for some other reason, Richie decided to stay and wait it out. It was fortuitous that he did, because Lancelot later emerged alive.

To this day, and probably for the rest of his life, Richie won't grasp what about those men with swords he found so fascinating. Even later, when he learned that he was drawn to immortals because he himself was one of them, it didn't explain his chance decision to rob the store that night, or the reason he stayed after witnessing the quickening. Richie would eventually chalk it up to fate. Right now he chalked it up to his annoying tendency to be insatiably curious.

However, there's nothing like witnessing a beheading to cure you of your curiosity for a while. He left the bridge after he saw Lancelot alive, and he decided not to follow him again, nor to stake out the store or have anything to do with MacLeod. Instead Richie set to work, doing what he does best. He stuck primarily to car stereos this time, not chancing another B & E attempt after what happened last time. Every once and a while he'd make off with hood ornaments and hubcaps as well. He was on the streets every day, hitting up his fence at least once a week. Barely sparing any money for food, by the end of the month Richie had amassed an even five hundred dollars. He gave two hundred to his landlord for the rent and made his way back to the gang house with the remaining three hundred. Granted it was minus the interest, but he figured that Romeo would be lenient if he presented him with the original three hundred he borrowed with promises of more to come when he can get it.

He figured wrong.

Romeo was less than thrilled when Richie showed up with less than the agreed upon sum of money. They were in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Richie was sitting on the bed while Romeo was pacing the floor. He demanded to know why Richie was shortchanging him, but when he explained about needing the rest of his gains for rent Romeo went off on him. He gave Richie a rather longwinded speech about not needing to pay rent because he could have easily lived with the gang once making it through initiations, after which Richie made the bigger mistake of informing Romeo that he wasn't interested in running with the gang. That's when Romeo brought out the switchblade.

Romeo's mistake was thinking that a measly four-inch blade could intimidate Richie. Actually, it could, but Richie had just come from having three-foot blades wagged in his face, so the tiny switchblade seemed like small potatoes. When Romeo leaned into his face throwing taunts at him in Spanish Richie took the opportunity and sucker-punched him in the nose. Romeo fell back and Richie made a break for it, Romeo's knife catching him in the side as he ran by him.

Richie made it down the stairs and out of the house, picking up tails as Romeo called to his gang members to give chase. Eventually Romeo joined them. Richie was so full of adrenaline that he didn't realize he'd left his wallet (and with it his apartment key) on the bed in the room when he gave Romeo the money, nor did he realize how badly he was injured. In fact, everything from punching Romeo to jumping in the T-bird was an unintelligible blur.

What happened after that, however, he remembered quite clearly.

Another one of those questions that will nag him on and off for the rest of his life is what made him run down Madison in the first place, it was the opposite direction from the neighborhood he knew. He crossed Seabrook and ran into the ally seemingly on instinct, darting out in front of MacLeod in the T-bird. The question that will nag Duncan for the rest of his life is what motivated him to take the shortcut in the first place. He wasn't too fond of that section of the city. It seems to all who know them that it was somehow predestined for the Highlander and the boy to become teacher and student.

Call it fate, fortune, or coincidence, Duncan MacLeod was in the right place at the right time and prevented Richie from entering the game. At this point in his life Richie couldn't for the life of him figure out why the man had saved him. He just didn't know Mac well enough yet. The really strange part is that MacLeod visited him regularly after saving bringing him to the hospital, and seemed genuinely concerned with his welfare. None of Richie's foster families had ever visited him in the hospital save for dropping him off and picking him up. Three of his four hospital visits were caused by members of those particular foster families, however.

Richie was now sitting on a bus headed for the heights to begin a new job at the antique store that he had tried to rob barely a month before. Through an entirely unexplainable sequence of events MacLeod had saved his life and offered him a job. Richie didn't understand it, even if he found himself accepting that, even though MacLeod was withholding information, that he could take the man at his word and trust what he said. However, it took more than just a gut feeling for Richie to trust anyone, but saving his life, volunteering plausible explanations, and offering him a job were definitely steps in the right direction.

He knew that Romeo and his gang were still out there, and probably still wanted him dead. He knew the drill. He was supposed to pay them five hundred dollars, so if he wanted to escape with his life he would now need to cough up one thousand. This job with MacLeod was the easiest way to go about that, not to mention the safe feeling that working legit provided. He could make enough for rent and gradually save up to pay off Romeo (provided he could avoid him for a good while). He'd also make right on the damage to the window and to the alarm, because for another inexplicable reason he felt guilty about them.

For some reason, this sword-wielding, head-taking, unwitting rescuer of his instilled in Richie the want to make restitution, and rekindled the previously thought dormant desire to trust someone. He remembered Nikki screaming at him all the time that he didn't trust her and that all he did was look out for 'numero uno.' The next thing he knew she left him for some other guy that got her pregnant and wound up doing twenty to life for the murder of a convenience store clerk during a robbery gone wrong. Richie still shook his head over that one. _What's Melinda? Three now?_

The bus whined to a stop and Richie was thankful that the long ride was over. Now he just had to negotiate the three blocks to the antique store, which would be difficult considering every part of his body that wasn't throbbing in pain had gone numb from lack of attention. Once off the bus he sat on the bench in the sheltered bus stop until the pain subsided enough for him to feel in control of his extremities again. After the brief respite Richie began the walk to the antique store, still unsure of the sequence of events that dropped this opportunity practically in his lap. However, it was meaningful, legal employment, and a steady income. It meant he could quit stealing. It meant he could pay rent on a real apartment. It meant he had a chance of paying Romeo off and being done with gangs for good. He was determined not to blow this chance.

With these hopeful thoughts in mind Richie entered the antique shop. Tessa was working the register and looked up from her magazine at the sound of the bell chiming as the door opened. She quickly schooled her expression into abject neutrality; however she wasn't sure if it would have otherwise shown surprise, disappointment, or amusement that Richie had actually shown up for the job.

"I'll go tell Duncan you're here," she said, her voice cool and professional. Richie didn't need her to actually say _don't touch anything_ for the command to come across loud and clear. Tessa went up the stairs to the loft but Duncan met her at the top landing, having sensed Richie's pre-immortal presence as soon as he entered the store.

"Look who's here," said Tessa in that same emotionless tone.

"Morning, Richie," Duncan greeted.

Richie smiled up at him and waved half-heartedly. He felt lost and out of place and didn't know what else to do with himself. Meanwhile Duncan descended from the stairs.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better enough to be here," Richie answered, deliberately vague. He didn't want to give the man the satisfaction of telling him that he was right about the bus ride. Duncan sensed that he didn't want to discuss the matter further so he just nodded at Richie's reply. Tessa watched all this from the landing with a mixture of ill-ease and curiosity.

"Well," said Duncan, "ready to get to work?"

"Lay on, MacLeod," Richie said, raising his hands in surrender. Duncan smiled, appreciating the reference to Shakespeare's _MacBeth_. Not only did it show that Richie was more well-read than Duncan would have first given him credit for, it was also the first written work that Duncan learned to read all those years ago in Paul's monastery. He knew the entire play by heart.

"Right," he said. "This way."

Duncan led Richie through Tessa's workshop to one of the back storage closets. It was a spacious closet, a good eight by eight with shelves on three of the walls. Duncan flipped on the light and grabbed the notepad and pen from one of the shelves.

"I need an inventory of this closet. Apparently the computer decided to erase the inventory files for the store and now we have to do the work all over again," he explained, handing Richie the notepad and pen.

"You mean I have to do the work," he said gravely, surveying the shelves of boxes and the crates stacked on the floor.

"Unless you have any objections."

"No—no. It's cool," Richie quickly assured. He didn't want to give the impression that he didn't want to be there.

"Good. There's a stepladder in the back corner there," said Duncan, pointing the ladder out to the teenager. "I'd start with the top shelves since they contain the lightest pieces. Don't want to pull your stitches out."

"Of course not."

"Use the ladder, grab a box, and set it down on one of the crates. Open the box and write down what's inside. Be sure you repack the boxes neatly so that nothing gets damaged and everything fits back inside. Then put the box back on the shelf. The pieces should be tagged, so just write down what the tag says."

"That's sounds easy enough," Richie mused.

"Yeah it's not hard," Duncan agreed. "Tedious maybe, but not hard."

"Fun," Richie declared, restraining his voice at the last possible second so that it conveyed only _mild_ sarcasm.

"There's a radio on the shelf over there," said Duncan, indicating the radio on one of Tessa's art supply shelves. "Oh, and if you come across a piece that isn't tagged, come find me," he added.

"Right," said Richie, nodding again.

With that Duncan left the boy to his work. By the time he reentered the shop and shut the workshop door he heard the offensive sounds of a teenager's preference in music blaring through the small radio. It's a good thing the door leading from the workshop to the antique shop is soundproof. Tessa then confronted him in the antique store.

"What's he doing in there?" She asked worriedly, thinking about her art.

"Inventory," Duncan answered.

"But Duncan, didn't we just do inventory?"

"Yeah, right after the break in."

"Does he know that?"

"Nope."

"Then, why are you—"

"Because it's easy, he can go at his own pace, and it's a show of trust," Duncan answered, cutting her off.

"So you're saying you trust him?" Duncan sighed.

"I'm saying that he'll think we do. If there's anything that doesn't match up we'll deal with it then."

"Ah," said Tessa in realization. "So this is a test."

"Yeah," Duncan admitted. "Something like that."

"And if he fails?" Tessa asked, sounding like she almost said 'when.'

"I don't think he will, Tess," Duncan said seriously. "If he sees that we trust him I think he's going to want to keep it that way. I don't think he wants to screw this up, he's lucky to be given a chance like this."

Tessa nodded, understanding the logic of it. "But Duncan," she said coyly, arching an eyebrow, "if you really trusted him you wouldn't be testing him like this."

"True," he admitted. "But he doesn't have to know that."

Tessa laughed at that.

"The inventory will take him the rest of today and all of tomorrow. If he still shows up, and if the sheets he shows me match what we've already entered into the computer, we'll take it from there."

Tessa nodded in acceptance. "Well," she said, "If you've got him in the closet I'm going to take the rest of the morning off and do some shopping."

"I'm sure his meddling about in the closet won't disturb your work, Tess," Duncan said, slightly chiding her avoidance tactics.

"It's not him that bothers me Duncan," she said. "It's that awful music he's listening to." With that she kissed him briefly and headed back into the loft to grab her coat and car keys.

* * *

Back in the closet, Richie was attempting to make sense of the stacks upon stacks of boxes. He grabbed the stepladder and planted it in the corner of the closet. When he climbed it to get at the first box he was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was relatively light. Upon opening it for inventory, however, he discovered that it was filled with small glass figurines. True to Duncan's word, each was tagged. Richie picked up the first one, a rose, and wondered how many little old ladies it would take to buy up a collection of these things. Then he noticed the tag. It had a serial number, piece identification details, and an approximate date. Richie sighed and divided the notepad into four columns, writing across from left to right the six-digit serial number, glass rose figurine, England, 1900. Then he set that one aside and picked up the next, thinking to himself that if each box contained countless small things like that little rose, then he certainly had his work cut out for him.

A half hour later he had finished with the first box and its eighteen figurines. He might have finished sooner if he hadn't paused to inspect each one with a child's fascination. He had never been allowed to touch such things, whether he had seen them in a store or in someone's house. Now touching them was an integral part of his job, and he was subconsciously making sure that he savored every prolonged moment of it.

In similar fashion Richie then progressed through most of the top shelf by the time Tessa interrupted him. She had spent the better part of the late morning-early afternoon shopping. By now it was two thirty, and when Duncan had told her that he hadn't heard a peep from the boy since he began working she decided to check up on him. However, she did have the good graces to disguise her intent by bringing him a sandwich since he didn't stop for lunch.

Richie looked up sharply from the fourth antique wineglass of the set in his current box when he heard his music turn off. However, when he turned to leave the closet he saw Tessa enter carrying a plate and a can of soda.

"Duncan told me you haven't emerged from that closet all day, so I figured that you missed lunch," she said, forcing a smile as she entered. She put the plate and the soda can down on one of the large packing crates in the middle of the room.

Richie checked his watched and was startled by the time. "I guess I did," he admitted, smiling. "Thanks Ms. Noel. I guess I was so caught up I lost track of time." He went over to the crate and popped open the soda.

"I figured that teenagers drink liquid sugar spiced with caffeine," she said, trying to sound casual and conversational.

Richie had heard that tone before in each 'I'm going to pretend to be interested in you' foster parent and social worker, but it didn't matter. She had brought him food without his having to ask. By all rights they could have forgotten that he was there (well, as much as one forgets you've got a thief in your storeroom), but they didn't, and they were feeding him.

"That is the rumor," Richie said once he finished a rather large gulp of it.

Tessa glanced at the top-bound notebook. He was on his fifth page, four previous ones being flipped messily over the top. Richie's handwriting dominated both the front and back of those sheets, rather messy but still very legible. They boy had really been working all this time.

"How's it going?" Tessa asked, slightly warmed by her discovery.

"Well, when Mr. MacLeod said that it was easy but tedious he wasn't kidding," Richie answered. "But it makes the time go by quickly," he added with a smile, doing his best to get on her good graces.

"Well the funny thing about work is that it's work," Tessa said with a slight laugh. In hindsight it could have appeared condescending.

"Yeah, I know," Richie agreed amicably. "It's not the work I mind, though. It's the worrying about breaking something that costs more than my life is worth."

"I'm sure you'll be careful," Tessa told him. "Remember to stop and eat next time." She forced another smile and left the storeroom, not immune to the awkwardness that prevailed during their conversation. Later on she would realize that she was the one making it awkward, her struggle for civility not being lost on the teen, who would interpret it as her mistrust and general dislike of him. Not that the impression wasn't correct, she still didn't trust the boy and wasn't sure of her opinion of him in general. However, had she known how he would interpret her words, tone, and actions, she would have behaved differently.

For starters she would have known not to unknowingly corroborate the boy's belief that their merchandise was worth more than his life, and wouldn't have only belatedly realized that he had remembered her name.

Richie, on the other hand, was thoroughly impressed with what just transpired. He knew that the woman didn't like him, and probably trusted him even less. However, she brought him a sandwich and a soda without his having to ask for it. Granted he didn't like tuna and was mildly allergic to mayonnaise, but she couldn't possibly have known that. He choked it down anyway with much help from the soda, knowing better than to protest an unsought meal. She had brought him food, which meant that she remembered he was there, and more importantly she cared about him enough to feed him when she learned he hadn't eaten. She didn't need to like or even trust him; he didn't care about that. She remembered his existence and treated him like a human being. Sure he could easily read through the forced civility, but the fact that she cared enough to make the effort was a gesture in and of itself that he wasn't used to from strangers (or foster family members). Tessa didn't need to like, respect, or trust him. She didn't even need to care enough about him to ask whether or not he liked tuna or was allergic to mayonnaise. Tessa could maintain a relationship of civil indifference for all he cared, but because of this she was already close to being his favorite human being on the planet.

His spirits lifted, Richie decided not to turn the radio back on, thinking that it was Tessa's way of protesting his music choice rather than a simple way of getting his attention, and he went back to work. He kept working until six that evening when Duncan came to free him from his toils for the day.

"Hey tough guy," Duncan called as he stuck his head in the doorframe. Richie looked up from the box of embroidered scarves he was in the middle of inventorying. "It's six o'clock, quitting time."

Richie smiled broadly at the highlander. "Just let me jot this last bit down," he said, recording that this one, like the two before it, was a product of eighteenth century India. "And with that I am officially done!" Richie exclaimed as he folded the scarf and piled it on top of the previous two. "Should I put these three back in the box or leave them out?" He asked timidly after a moment's pause.

"You can leave them," Duncan answered. "How'd you do?"

"I'm most of the way through the second shelf down," Richie said neutrally. He didn't know it that was a good thing or a bad thing. "But I've filled nearly ten pages of notebook, both sides," he added, sounding like a child explaining about doing his homework. Duncan held out his hand and Richie passed him the notebook. Duncan flipped it back to the beginning and perused through it. "You can read my writing, right?" Richie asked a cross between frightened and defensively.

Duncan looked up at him and smiled. "Not a problem," he reassured.

Richie visibly relaxed at that.

"Good work," Duncan said, tearing off the used sheets and folding them in half. "I'll add these to the computer tonight. What time do you think you'll be able to make it tomorrow?"

Richie paused a moment, considering. "Well the buses run every twenty minutes," he offered with a shrug. "I could show up at the same time, or earlier if you want. It's about a forty minute bus ride."

Now it was Duncan's turn to pause and consider. "Why don't you come back at the same time tomorrow? You're still injured and I don't want you overexerting yourself."

Richie nodded. "Then I guess I'll see you at ten thirty," he said. Then he checked his watch. "If there's nothing else, I can catch the six twenty bus back to my apartment."

"Don't be ridiculous," Duncan said with a light laugh. "I'll drive you."

"You don't have to do that, Mr. MacLeod," Richie protested. "I got here on the bus I can get home the same way."

"I still don't like the thought of you and your fifty three stitches bouncing around on the bus twice a day, especially in the evenings after you've been working all day."

Richie opened his mouth as if to protest again but Duncan cut him off.

"Just humor me ok? If something happens on your commute home I could get sued."

Richie blinked, slightly taken aback. "Sued by who?"

Duncan paused a moment, not sure how to answer. "Well, by you if you wanted to. And even if you didn't, when the insurance agencies find out I let you leave knowing the condition you're in my premiums could go through the roof." Duncan said this with as much seriousness as he could muster but the tone still came out half-mocking.

At any rate it made Richie laugh.

"Ok, Mr. MacLeod, you win," he said, raising his hands in defeat.

Duncan smiled and led the boy through Tessa's workshop and out the back entrance. They both climbed into the T-bird and completed the twenty-minute drive in comfortable silence. Finally Duncan pulled in front of Richie's apartment.

"I could give you a ride in the mornings too, you know," he said as he shifted the car into park.

"That's ok, Mr. MacLeod, I can manage," Richie said as he climbed out of the car and shut the door.

Duncan knew better than to argue the point. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, shifting back into gear.

"Ten thirty," said Richie, once again confirming their agreement.

Then Duncan drove off, leaving Richie standing on the curb watching after him until the T-bird disappeared over the crest of the next hill.

Still trying to sort out the myriad of emotions clogging his though processes, Richie headed into his apartment. He knew that neither of them trusted him, but then he had expected as much. He didn't trust them either. This MacLeod was easy to get along with, and seemed to be prepared to give him the chance to prove himself. Richie had been faced with this scenario many times, and each time he would either fail or the situation itself would change.

Then there was Tessa.

Although she was worse at hiding her true feelings, she cared enough to feign politeness and even went so far as to offer him food without his asking. Richie's never had it so good with two people at the same time like that.

However, Richie was enthusiastically aware that times were different now. He was eighteen, a legal adult. He had his own apartment and the makings of a real, legitimate, day job. If he wanted to keep the apartment he would need to keep that day job. Richie definitely didn't want to go back to a life of crime again. It was too risky and the payoffs, while potentially impressive, were too few and far between for him to afford the lifestyle he was aiming for. Granted he aimed to live from paycheck to paycheck, earning enough for rent and food with the rest being details, but it was a start. More than that, it was an _honest_ start, something he never thought he'd have.

This was the official start to the brand new Richie Ryan, and as much as he wanted to convince himself that he did it all on his own, he knew that he owed it all to MacLeod. As much as he hated being beholden to anyone, he couldn't deny that he would be dead now if it weren't for the curiously persistent Scotsman. Richie didn't know what to make off all that had just happened. He knew that he should be either dead or in jail, but he was neither. Instead he was alive and employed by two people who by right shouldn't give a damn about him. What did he do to deserve such kindness?

Richie's first response to random acts of kindness from people is to automatically question their motives. This quandary would keep Richie occupied for quite a while because for some of these things he just couldn't spot the man's self-serving ulterior motives, and it wasn't for a lack of trying. It definitely left Richie with some things to ponder, given that he was going to try and stick with this new job. He was determined to find out what this MacLeod really wanted, but until then he'd be more than happy to take his money each week.

Yet in spite of all his questions and natural misgivings about the situation, somewhere in the back of Richie's mind lurked the faintest embers of hope. If he could get MacLeod to trust him, at least as far as healthy employer-employee relationships go, then that's a start; and perhaps, just perhaps, he could learn to repay the courtesy.


	5. Finding Routine

Richie arrived on time for work on Tuesday, this time bringing his own lunch. He was tempted to 'forget' it to see if Tessa would make him another sandwich, but decided against it at the last minute. _It's not her problem if I don't eat_. Of course, telling himself that it wasn't his employers' responsibility to feed him only served to mask his fear of disappointment for when they saw that he was without food and then informed him that it wasn't their problem.

"Morning, Richie," Duncan greeted from behind the counter when Richie entered the store. He was going over the register totals.

"Morning," Richie answered back with a slight wave. His insides still hadn't recovered from the bus ride. Unfortunately, he didn't hide his discomfort well enough.

"You feeling ok?" Duncan asked in concern, this time fully looking up from his work to regard the teen.

"Fine," Richie lied easily but without making eye contact. "I'm not used to getting up this early two days in a row."

Duncan looked at his watch. "It's only ten thirty-two."

Richie nodded. "Which means that I've been up since nine."

"You call that early?" Duncan asked with a grin.

Richie resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Let's just say that I'm more of a night owl, myself."

"So I noticed."

A slightly uncomfortable silence hung in the air after Duncan's offhand comment. Richie nodded slightly, looking slightly away.

"Well, you ready to get to work?" Duncan asked finally, realizing that nothing more was going to be said about their previous vein of conversation.

"As ready as I'll ever be to do work," Richie said with a slight sigh.

Duncan nodded. "The store room's unlocked; everything should be as you left it."

"Then I guess it's back to the salt mines," Richie said dismissively as he made his way to the door.

"You know," said Duncan, "if this is too torturous, we could always find—"

"No, no!" Richie interjected quickly, instantly regretting his comment. "It's fine, really. I—I'll just be getting to work now." He spoke through a forced grin as he retreated backwards rather quickly and disappeared through the back door.

Once in the sanctity of the storeroom he shut the door behind him and slunk to the ground slowly, resting his back against it. He took a few moments to silently berate himself for his mistake. He couldn't afford to blow this chance, and his often too smart a mouth once again went off without his permission and nearly jeopardized everything. That's the problem with defense mechanisms, they snap into place automatically.

Richie stayed on the ground until the ache in his side had subdued to a dull roar before standing up. With a heavy sigh he returned to the crate where he left the antique scarves and his notebook and pen. Dividing the new sheet into fours (as he had given Duncan his completed pages yesterday), Richie made ready to continue with his task. As an afterthought he opened the door part way. He didn't want his employers to have any (more) reasons to be suspicious of him.

Meanwhile, Duncan had finished changing over the register. Once the minimal amount remained in the register, Duncan took the rest of the money into his office to sort it. He was expecting Tessa to return from her hair appointment around noon. When she returned he could deposit the money in the bank. With a hopeful smile he thought of the possibility of one day being able to leave Richie in charge of the store so that he and Tessa wouldn't have to stagger their errands.

* * *

As promised, Tessa returned shortly before noon.

"Duncan?" She called once she entered the store.

"In here," he answered as he shut off his computer.

Tessa appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a brown paper bag. "What's this?" She asked, holding it aloft.

"Oh," Duncan answered, standing and heading towards her around his desk. "That must be Richie's lunch." He reached over and took it from her, then quickly went to retrieve the briefcase from beside his desk. "I'll give it to him on my way out."

"You're just going to the bank?" Tessa asked.

"Yeah," he answered. "Unless you need me to run a few errands." He said this last part slightly sarcastically, his mouth twitching into a grin. He knew better than to not expect this.

"Just something for dinner," Tessa said with a light laugh. They kissed briefly and then parted. Duncan moved past her into the shop.

"I'll be back soon," he said as he walked through the door into Tessa's workshop.

* * *

"Forget something?" Duncan asked, sticking his head through the partially open door. Richie looked up from the ceramic bowl he was inspecting and gave Duncan a quizzical look. Duncan then held out the brown bag.

"Oh yeah," Richie said, blushing slightly as he took the bag from him.

"How's it coming?"

Richie showed off his three completed notebook pages with a smile. "I'm almost done with the forth shelf," he said happily. "As you go down, the boxes are filled with less and less."

Duncan nodded. "Keep up the good work."

Richie flashed a broad smile at the unexpected praise.

"I'm going out," Duncan added. "Tessa's in the store if you need anything."

"Sure thing, Mr. MacLeod."

As soon as Duncan left, Richie decided to take that moment to eat his lunch. It was simply a peanut butter sandwich, made with the ends of the bread. It was the last sandwich Richie could make before going shopping again. The ends of the bread tasted cruddy, especially to someone who doesn't particularly care for crusts anyway, but still, it was lunch. With renewed motivation Richie returned to the task at hand, dreaming of the food he could buy with his first paycheck.

When six o'clock rolled around Richie wondered if he should just leave or if he should wait for either Duncan or Tessa to relieve him. He had finished six shelves, leaving only the bottom shelf and the crates on the floor to get through. He went back through his notations, feeling quite proud of himself, and decided to wait to be relieved of his post. He wouldn't open any new boxes, instead making it look like he was reviewing what he'd written down. That was his compromise.

"Do you know what time it is?" Duncan asked, sticking his head in the door.

Richie looked up from the notepad thankfully, but turned around to regard his employer with an innocent expression. "Miller time?"

Duncan smiled slightly. "It's six ten."

"Great!" Richie exclaimed, tearing off his completed notebook pages and handing them to Duncan. Duncan skimmed them, nodding in appreciation. He then folded the sheets into fours and stuck them in his pocket.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride."

This time Richie knew better than to argue, so he just nodded. "After you."

Duncan and Richie spent the drive back to Richie's apartment once again in comfortable silence.

"See you tomorrow," Richie said as he exited the T-bird.

"Tomorrow," Duncan echoed as he put the car in gear and drove off. Once again Richie watched the T-bird until it disappeared.

* * *

Later that evening Tessa came from her workshop and walked straight into Duncan's office.

"How's it coming?" He asked, looking up from the computer scene. Richie's pages were strewn about the top of his desk.

"I'm just polishing it now," said Tessa tiredly.

Duncan frowned. "I mean the bicentennial piece."

Tessa expression changed subtly. "Oh, that."

"Yeah, that." Duncan said, rising from his chair and crossing over to her.

Tessa sighed. "I'll have it done by the deadline, Duncan," she said. "Don't worry."

"Not if you keep putting it off."

"I've got the metal cut. I just need to shape it."

"I know what type of perfectionist you are," Duncan told her, putting his arms around her waist. "That's going to be the most grueling part."

Tessa sighed again and nodded. "I know. It's just…"

"Just what? You've had high profile commissions before."

"I know." Tessa hung her head briefly, biting her lip. Duncan was amazed at the vulnerability in her eyes when she looked up again. "It's just that, all my other commissions here have been for either private organizations or collectors. This is for the city."

"I don't understand," Duncan confessed, searching her expressive features for meaning.

"Those other works are sitting somewhere, on a shelf or in a corner by a plaque collecting dust. This will be going in the middle of the park for all the world to see."

At last Duncan nodded, finally understanding. "Its location doesn't automatically make it a better or worse piece than any of your others," he said softly.

The unsure look Tessa gave him made him quickly amend his statement.

"You have a phenomenal talent, Tess. And that's not just my saying that. You beat out dozens of others for this commission; the city council was obviously impressed."

"I was chosen because I studied at the Sorbonne," Tessa informed him plainly. "They think that makes me better than your average starving artist _dans les Etats-Unis_." Her incidental use of her native French telegraphed just how uncertain of her talents she really was.

"You think that they're expecting more from you simply because you're French?" Duncan asked. He wasn't expecting this to be the cause of her sudden self-doubt.

"Americans think that Europeans make better artists," she explained. "That's why French restaurants and designer labels are so expensive."

"Well who's to say they're right?" Duncan countered. "And even if they think that, you graduated in the top of your class at the Sorbonne, so that makes you the best of the best. And you didn't excel there because you're French, young lady."

Tessa smiled slightly and Duncan continued:

"You beat the competition because of your talent, not your nationality, and even if the council is so narrow minded to think otherwise, your own people declared you to be an artist of excellent standing."

"But does that make me worthy of this?" She asked with quiet honesty.

Duncan shook his head. "No, your _talent_ makes you worthy. You've been getting at least one commission a month for the past three years. That's better than most artists in this part of _Les Etats-Unis_." Duncan deliberately made light of Tessa's use of her native French a moment ago.

Tessa laughed for a moment and then went quiet again. "This will be my most public display," she said at length.

"What? That piece you did for the library last spring wasn't public enough?" Duncan asked, laughing slightly.

"More people go to the park than to the library, Duncan," Tessa replied seriously.

"And the people who go to the park aren't all educated art enthusiasts," Duncan concluded.

Tessa nodded.

"Are you honestly telling me that you're afraid of the layman's opinion?"

"If the public doesn't like it they can pressure the council to take it down," Tessa informed him.

Duncan honestly didn't understand this sudden worried self-doubting. "You worry too much," he said with a smile. "Since when has the general public protested anything that wasn't either religiously or sexually offensive? And even then, when have enough people protested to cause change?"

Tessa sighed, she couldn't argue with that. "I'm an artist. You think that I'd have learned to deal with rejection."

"Since when is winning the most important commission of your career a rejection?" Duncan asked with a laugh.

Once again Tessa couldn't refute the point.

"And if it's the laymen's opinions you're so worried about," he added, "well I'm a layman and personally I _love_ your work."

"You, Duncan MacLeod, are certainly _not_ a layman!" Tessa protested, finally returning Duncan's laughter. "And besides, you're biased."

This time it was Duncan who couldn't argue. "You're right," he said seriously. "I'm not an artist or a critic, but I know what I like and I've seen a lot of art. Believe me when I tell you that you are one of the most talented artists I've seen in my entire life. Now I may be biased because I love you, but if you recall I was taken by that sculpture in the Sorbonne gallery _before_ I fell in love with you."

Tessa smiled, blushing slightly at the unexpected memory. The second time she had met Duncan was when he came to the annual showing of the Sorbonne's art school graduates.

"And you know I'm not the only one who feels that way," he finished, drawing her close and smiling down at her, their heads almost touching.

"I know," she conceded. "I know." When she looked up at him again, her expression was nearly back to normal, her irrational fears having been at least temporarily eased somewhat by this discussion.

"Besides, if you're truly worried about what the average American thinks," said Duncan with a sly grin, "just show some of your work to Richie."

Tessa laughed outright and shoved him away. "That boy doesn't know the first thing about art!"

"Probably not."

Suddenly Tessa realized what Duncan was doing and she shook her head. "Oh, you…" She drew him back into her arms. They kissed a few times before Duncan pulled away.

"Why don't you go wash up? I'll get dinner started."

"Ok." They kissed once more and then Tessa departed for the loft.

Duncan returned to the desk and gathered up Richie's note sheets. He filed them away with their other inventory notes and turned the office light off with ah air of satisfaction. So far Richie hadn't missed a thing. If he had stolen anything, he wouldn't have written down that they had it in the first place.

* * *

Richie arrived on time for work on Wednesday. This time for lunch he brought the jar of peanut butter and a spoon. There was hardly any left so he intended to finish it off. He concealed the items in another bag so as to disguise the meagerness of the meal.

The bus ride was still incredibly uncomfortable, but this time he forced his features to not betray his discomfort. He entered the antique shop to find Tessa explaining an antique doll to an elderly customer. Richie momentarily panicked. He knew that he wasn't dressed appropriately enough to be seen by the public as an employee here. He also wasn't sure if he should just walk past them through the back door so as to not interrupt a possible sale. Richie was unsure how Tessa would feel if he just blew her off and walked into the back like he owned the place.

The momentary panic was quelled when he suddenly heard Duncan's voice.

"In the office, Rich," he called out.

Richie breathed a sigh of relief and then went into the office.

"Good morning," Duncan greeted when he entered.

"Good morning," Richie said, showing his relief at yet another of Duncan's rescues.

"In the future you can just wave at Tessa to get her attention and then get to work."

"Sure thing Mr. MacLeod," said Richie, relieved to be given a sense of direction about the issue.

"Do you think you'll finish the store room today?" Duncan asked.

"I hope so," Richie answered. "I just have the last shelf to do, and then those crates on the floor."

Duncan nodded. "When you've finished the shelf come find me. Those crates are heavy, we'll do them together."

Richie blinked in surprise. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Whatever you say Mr. MacLeod."

Richie returned to the storeroom and regarded it with a mixture of relief and trepidation. He would be glad to finally finish his detail in the closet, but in order to do that he'd have to work alongside MacLeod, and that thought didn't exactly thrill him. Also, once this particular task is complete, Richie didn't know for certain that they would have other work for him to do. He knew that they'd be paying him for what he's done so far (minus a percent to cover his damages), but what else would they have him do, if anything?

Richie returned to his work mechanically, both looking forward and not looking forward to completing the task. He worked methodically and tried to allow his mind to become engrossed in the task at hand. However, by eleven thirty he was done with the shelf, and that meant that it was time to face his employer and what was to come. Resigned, he walked back into the antique store and found Duncan still in his office. Mercifully, Tessa wasn't in the store. Richie knocked twice on the office's open door.

"Hey Richie," Duncan greeted as he placed the last stamp on an envelope.

"Mr. MacLeod, I've finished the shelves," Richie informed him.

"Great," said Duncan with a smile as he gathered up his stack of sealed envelops that contained this months bills and invoices. "I have to run to the post office to buy stamps so I can mail these. Why don't you come with me? We can get lunch and then come back here and deal with the crates."

Richie quickly schooled his face to repress the sudden surge of different emotional responses. Duncan noticed him pale slightly, but other than that there was no evidence of the war between surprise, delight, suspicion, and fear going on inside Richie's head at the moment.

"Uh, I brought my lunch today," Richie said neutrally.

"So have it for dinner when you get home," Duncan said with a grin as he stood up and grabbed his coat.

"I don't have enough money," Richie protested without making eye contact. He was ashamed to say that, but he couldn't possibly afford to buy lunch and he wasn't going to spring that fact on MacLeod when the bill came.

"My treat," Duncan said lightly.

That won Richie over. He hadn't had a decent meal since the illegal cheeseburger in the hospital (if nuked TV dinners don't count). Sure he was nervous at the prolonged voluntary contact with his slightly intimidating employer, but his need for sustenance won out and he agreed to the offer.

"Sure, ok then," Richie stuttered.

Duncan smiled at him and they headed back through Tessa's workshop into the ally, Duncan pausing momentarily to yell to Tessa to cover the store while he and Richie ran errands. He waved goodbye to her once she appeared at the top of the stares. Richie made certain to not even look at her.

The first stop was the post office. Richie remained in the car while Duncan went in to buy more stamps and mail the bills. Ten minutes later they were on their way to lunch.

"So where do you want to eat?" Duncan asked.

Richie shrugged. "I dunno," he said dismissively. "You're paying, you choose."

"Alright."

Another ten minutes and they stopped in front of a moderately priced family style restaurant called 'Juno's.' Richie had only been here a few times, but he liked the food. However, that didn't stop him from wanting to protest the choice when they could have just as easily gone to a cheaper fast food joint. In the end he decided that it wasn't his place to question MacLeod's judgment so he would compensate by ordering one of the cheapest things on the menu.

They were seated in a booth and sat in silence perusing the menus until the waitress came over to take their drink orders. Duncan ordered a coffee and was surprised when Richie ordered the same.

"I didn't know you like coffee," said Duncan.

"This is Washington State," said Richie. "Doesn't everyone drink coffee?" Duncan laughed at that.

"What are you getting?" Duncan asked casually, mostly for the sake of conversation.

However, Richie took the motivation to be the price. "Oh, I dunno," he said, trying to sound equally casual. "Probably the BLT. You?"

Duncan returned his gaze to the menu. He failed to notice that BLTs were one of the cheapest sandwiches on the menu.

"The chicken potpie looks tempting," Duncan said absently, still looking over the menu.

Richie turned to the appropriate menu page. _They do look tempting, at that_. However, Richie did notice that the pie was nearly two dollars more expensive than the BLT he was planning on. In Richie's mind, two dollars was still a lot of money, so he decided to stick with his sandwich.

Just then the waitress returned with their coffees and to take their orders. Duncan ordered the chicken potpie and Richie ordered the BLT. The waitress jotted the orders and then departed. Duncan added barely half a container of half and half to his coffee and only one sugar, but watched in amusement as Richie dumped three half and half containers and four sugars into his own coffee.

"Some coffee with your sugar and cream?" He asked lightly.

"I don't particularly like the taste of coffee," Richie said as he stirred the contents of his cup with his spoon. The coffee looked nearly white.

"Then why'd you order it?" Duncan asked.

Richie suddenly realized his mistake. "Well I found that if I add enough cream and sugar to it then it doesn't taste that bad," he said. "And I was in the mood for something hot," he added as an afterthought, knowing that the excuse of 'it was cheaper than soda' wouldn't be appropriate.

Duncan just smiled and shook his head. Then they sat in a silence that hovered somewhere between companionable and awkward for a time.

"Are you cold?" Duncan asked, finally tired of seeing Richie hunched down with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug.

"Just a little," Richie answered. "I'll warm up eventually."

"Don't you have a jacket? It's not all that warm out."

"I know," Richie agreed. "My old one still needs to be washed and sewn."

"The black and green one?" Duncan asked in shock.

Richie nodded.

"But it's been sliced through and it's covered in blood!"

Richie nodded again. "Like I said, I haven't gotten around to washing and patching it yet."

"Well if you haven't washed it by now, the bloodstains are never coming out of it," Duncan told him.

"Not out of the lining," Richie agreed, "but the stain hit mostly the black part of the outside so once I sew it up it won't be all that noticeable."

Duncan shook his head. "I'd invest in a new jacket if I were you."

Richie bit the inside of his lip. He couldn't afford to eat let alone drop forty bucks for a decent jacket. "It's on my to-do list," he said to his coffee.

Duncan realized his mistake too late, and regretted making the statement.

"Right up there with the mop and hall lamp?" He asked with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Richie smiled a bit but still didn't look up. "Somewhere in there, yeah," he said. "It'll be good as new before winter though, so don't worry about it."

Duncan wanted to reassure the boy that he wasn't worried, but that wasn't at all the case. He guessed that Richie didn't heat his apartment very much to save money, and the thought of him not having a jacket didn't set too well with the Highlander.

"What good does that do you now?" He asked Richie instead.

This time Richie did look up. "Oh, I've got a long sleeve tee on under this," he said, lifting his sweatshirt to reveal the shirt underneath. "If it gets really cold I'll just add another layer."

Duncan nodded. At least Richie was smart enough to layer up. Just then the waitress returned with their food and the same silence resumed as they ate. Eventually Duncan decided to break the silence.

"Why were those boys chasing you?" He asked, trying not to sound like he was interrogating the teen.

Richie covered for his lack of a ready-made lie by taking a sip of his coffee.

"They're a gang," he said at last. "Maybe they just wanted my shoes."

"But you said they had already gotten your wallet," Duncan reminded him.

"Well if you're gonna rob someone, it makes sense to take their wallet," Richie said with mock seriousness.

"But why you?" Duncan persisted.

Richie shrugged, his mind working overtime to come up with a decent cover story. "How do I know how gangs choose their victims?" He returned. "I might have just seemed like an easy mark."

Somehow Duncan doubted that. "You knew the boy who stabbed you," he said. "And Powell said that you used to run with them."

Richie couldn't stifle the laugh. "Yeah I bet he did," he said disdainfully. "I used to live in their territory off and on, and in the foster home before my apartment. Of course Powell would assume that."

Duncan had to accept that such an assumption was just like Powell.

"So you were never a member of the gang?" He asked.

Richie regarded him critically, as though gauging the consequences of telling him the truth. "I knew who they were," he said at last. "I would see them in school when we were younger. We were friendly, but I was never initiated into the gang."

After momentary debate Duncan decided that Richie was telling the truth about that.

"If you were friendly then why'd they try to kill you in a robbery?" He asked.

Richie shrugged and took another bit of his sandwich as his mind worked to formulate the next domino lie. "I moved out of their territory, and they had long since dropped out of school so I hardly ever saw them before I moved anyway." Richie didn't bother to mention that he too dropped out of high school. He should have graduated last spring, but he dropped out around Thanksgiving of senior year.

"But I thought you said you were friendly?"

"We used to be when we were younger," Richie admitted. "But I guess that didn't count for much. Like I said, I don't know how gangs choose their victims, especially the civvies."

Duncan had to accept what Richie told him as fact. He could sense that there was more to the story than Richie was letting on, but he doubted that Richie was lying in what he was saying. After all, the victim doesn't need to know the reason for the attack.

"I guess it doesn't," Duncan agreed. His highland morality hated the gang members even more if that's how they treat their so-called friends, provided of course that there was no ulterior motive for their attacking Richie, which Duncan was almost certain there was.

Silence resumed once more, Duncan momentarily satisfied with Richie's explanation and Richie relieved that Duncan had bought into his obfuscations. _I didn't lie_, he told himself. _I just didn't tell the truth_.

When the waitress came by with the bill Richie made a grab for it, intending to note how much he owed so he could pay Duncan back when he had the money, but Duncan beat him to it.

"My treat, remember," he said as he glanced at the bill to make sure everything was in order. Then he pulled out his wallet and placed a credit card in the leather folder with the bill. The waitress came by immediately to take it.

"Thanks, Mr. MacLeod," Richie said sincerely. "I'll pay you back when I get the chance."

"What part of 'my treat' don't you understand?" Duncan asked with a laugh.

"You really don't have to," Richie protested. "I can pay you back eventually."

Duncan sighed. Richie's inability to accept random acts of kindness was starting to both simultaneously irritate and depress him.

"Well consider it your birthday present," he said as the waitress came back with the charge slip. Duncan filled in the tip and signed the slip and stuck it back in the leather folder so Richie couldn't see it.

"Wasn't saving my life a birthday present? Or the job offer?" Richie asked, confused.

"Richie, I didn't know you'd just had a birthday when I helped you," Duncan explained patiently. "And I would have done that anyway. As for the job offer," he continued with a grin, "why should a present to _you_ help _me_?"

Richie didn't have an answer to that.

"Thank you," he said at last, with quiet sincerity, into his empty coffee mug.

"You're welcome," Duncan answered, matching Richie's tone.

* * *

They left the restaurant and went back to the antique store to inventory the packing crates. In all honesty they had just been inventoried so Duncan already knew what was in each one. He wasn't about to tell Richie that, however. He wanted Richie to think that he trusted him, which even though was deceitful had served its purpose. Richie was proving that he could be both a trustworthy and diligent employee with the manner in which he tackled the inventory assignment. Duncan was very pleased with the quality of Richie's work, and with the discovery that the teen could in fact be trusted.

More importantly, displaying trust is the fastest way to earn it in return, and Duncan desperately wanted Richie to trust him. He knew that the teen wasn't the lost cause Powell claimed him to be, and if given half a chance he might prove to be decent human being and productive member of society, and everything else he was automatically denied the chance at by those in authority that had already judged him.

Also, as a pre-immortal in the time of the gathering, Duncan knew that Richie would need every advantage in order to survive for at least one lifetime. Teaching Richie to survive in the game would be much easier if he could coax him to do and be more than what's defined for him by others' sub-standard expectations. It also might help him live a little longer beforehand, and every added year of mortal life would make him that much stronger and more capable as an immortal.

The drive back to the antique store was completed in the same silence, which by now was beginning to feel comfortable for the routine of it if nothing else. Richie was unsure if he felt better from having gotten lunch with his employer or not. He was glad that Duncan bought his explanation of Romeo's attack and rather touched at his concern over his lack of a jacket. However, as Duncan mentally noted, others' random acts of kindness and displays of altruistic concern were practically foreign to the teenager. His mind was still trying to find Duncan's ulterior motives because he had absolutely no reason to be this nice to him.

He was of course unaware of his pre-immortality, and nor would he ever be able to guess at that, so as far as he was concerned his employer was just as big a mystery as ever. This gave him mixed feelings of actually working _with_ the man (as opposed to simply _for_ him). His mind was still searching for a reason, which made him curious, but there was also the intimidation factor of working alongside your boss. Especially when said boss carries a big sword and already knows you to be a thief.

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, however, the event was inevitable. The T-bird pulled in behind the store and Richie was resigned to face the music. He just hoped that he wouldn't say or do anything that might jeopardize his job, and ergo he was hoping that MacLeod wouldn't ask him any more difficult questions.


	6. Complications

Richie worked side by side with MacLeod for the rest of the afternoon going through the contents of the crates in the storeroom. Duncan was opening each crate with a crowbar and then inspecting each piece. Thankfully he remembered what each one was so that he didn't have to hunt for and then decipher the packing slips (most of which were in Chinese). He would inform Richie of the pertinent information, and Richie would write it down on the notepad. Together they finished going through the crates in efficient form, the conversation consisting of small talk ranging from the pros and cons of flavored coffee to the Sonics' playoff chances this season.

They finished around four in the afternoon and Duncan decided to give Richie the rest of the afternoon off. Once again Richie didn't protest the offer for a ride home. He finished the day satisfied that he hadn't said or done anything to increase the awkwardness between he and his employer. In fact, the afternoon threatened to become rather enjoyable as they traded their favorite coffee styles and discussed in detail the statistics for how each NBA team stacked up this season. Richie decided that this MacLeod guy wasn't that bad after all—once you discount his rather violent extra-curricular activities of course. Richie was still intimidated by him, a feeling that was far from eased as he watched Duncan deftly wrench off the crate tops with the crowbar with fluid, easy motions that betrayed his incredibly strong arms and made Richie muse that they would have to be in order for the man to handle a sword the way he did.

By the time they lapsed into routine silence on the drive home, Richie had made up his mind that finding himself in the employ of Duncan MacLeod wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it reaffirmed how uncharacteristically lucky he was feeling about the situation. However, Richie still felt that MacLeod must have some other reason for being so nice to him and the fact that he hadn't pegged it yet was beginning to annoy him in the form of a little nagging voice in the back of his mind. No one saves someone's life twice (Richie counted the getaway and the trip to the hospital as two separate incidents) and then offers them a job without wanting something in return, especially when that person is the thief who robbed your place of business. Sure Richie would be able to get along with his new employer, but the seemingly missing puzzle piece is what would keep him from bridging the gap and actually trusting MacLeod.

Duncan, on the other hand, was quite pleased with the way things were turning out. Richie was shaping up to have the makings of a valuable employee. That meant that he would be able to offer him a real job at the antique store once the matter of the window and alarm system were taken care of. As of Right now he was planning on conducting business under the table, not wanting Richie's employment here to be attached to anyone's records in case it went sour, and also to save Duncan the hassle of dealing with the IRS (which every immortal grows to despise in a hurry). He would pay Richie in cash on Saturday for his week of work and count that as payment on the broken window. The alarm system was considerably more expensive than that, however. Numerically it worked out that Richie would have to work two weeks to cover half the cost of removing the old system (as Richie has proven that it is outdated and ineffective). He would cover the other half of the bill as a courtesy to Richie for 'testing' their alarm system for them. Duncan was hoping that the new system he recently had installed would sever them better than the previous one.

Richie arrived for work on Thursday unsure of what to do. He knew that the storeroom task was completed, but where did that leave him? He was worried that MacLeod was going to tell him to go home and that he had covered his debt to them. As much as Richie Ryan hated to admit it, he was actually looking forward to the prospect of a steady paying legitimate job. He was relieved when Duncan set him to work, even if he wasn't enamored with the task presented him.

Richie spent all day Thursday dusting every single item and display case in the store. That project took him all morning and half the afternoon; with a quick lunch break to eat the peanut butter he was planning on having the previous day. Richie finished off the day Windex-ing the glass cases and sweeping the floors. Once again Duncan gave him a ride home, and once again silence reigned. They had hardly spoken at all today, except in the morning when Duncan explained Richie's daily duties and periodically during the day when he asked him how the task was coming.

However, their lack of communication wasn't awkward so much as just an easy assumption of roles. Neither felt the need for conversation as each busied themselves with their respective tasks. It was a comfortable acceptance of the other's presence and their role within that environment. Neither noticed at the time that this was a subconscious reflection that they no longer perceived the other as a serious threat. Their comfort in each other's company meant that neither felt the need to be totally on his guard. It wasn't trust, but then it wasn't blatant mistrust either.

Friday came and Richie finished what he began the day before. He dusted the track lights and the nooks and crannies of the catwalk. He also dusted the Venetian blinds and the window frames and Windex-ed the windows. Lunch came and Richie feasted on a can of preserved peaches, once again doing his best to hide the meagerness of the meal from his more-attentive-than-one-would-think employers. After lunch Richie mopped the floor and cleaned the fingerprints off glass cases and the front door with yet more Windex. He surmised that he probably smelt of the stuff by the end of the day.

Once again Duncan let Richie go at five instead of six, having run out of work for him to do that day. He gave Richie the customary ride home however this time it wasn't silent.

"Are you planning on coming in tomorrow?" Duncan asked as he wound his way through the streets of Seacouver.

"Tomorrow Saturday?" Richie asked. He would forever be unsure of the date unless there was something remarkable about the day itself.

"Yes."

Richie thought about it for a moment. The last time he held a job, he hated working weekends. However, that's because he was usually assigned the night shift, and the antique store closes at five on Saturdays. Finally he decided that he needed the money and the five hours the store was opened on Saturday wouldn't kill him.

"I could," he said at last. "But the bus only comes every hour or so on the weekends." Duncan briefly considered offering the boy a ride but then decided against it. He didn't want to upset the routine they were developing just as it was starting to get comfortable.

"Well show up sometime between twelve and one, I'll have your pay ready," he said.

The thought of getting paid made Richie visibly brighten. "Sure thing Mr. MacLeod," he agreed with boyish delight.

Duncan pulled the T-bird in front of Richie's apartment and the teen climbed out of the car.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. MacLeod."

"Tomorrow it is then." Duncan drove away leaving a very happy Riche Ryan staring after his car.

Richie could hardly believe it; he was getting paid! Granted he didn't know how much money he'd receive considering the withholdings MacLeod would be taking to cover his, _ahem_, 'prior expenses.' However, he surmised that it would be at least enough to afford groceries and a trip to the Laundromat. If he was really lucky there'd be enough left over for him to pick up some black thread for his jacket (since his sewing kit was out of that color) and to cut a new key so he could give his landlord back the spare he had been using. Surprisingly he found himself practically unable to wait for tomorrow and the workday to come.

* * *

Richie arrived for work just after twelve, having taken the eleven o'clock bus. He entered the shop and saw Tessa reading a magazine behind the register; however, Duncan was nowhere to be found.

"Good morning, Mrs. Noel," Richie said cheerfully when Tessa looked up at the sound of the door chimes.

"Good afternoon, Richie," said Tessa in an expressionless voice. The enforced happiness on Richie's face fell when she corrected his greeting.

"Uh, is Mr. MacLeod around?" Richie asked, once again surveying the shop for signs of his absent employer.

"He had a few things to do this morning," said Tessa in that same tone. "I don't know when he'll be back."

"Ok then," said Richie, slightly ill at ease by this news. "Did he leave anything, or say anything…?" He stammered, unsure of himself.

"Yes Richie," Tessa answered and couldn't help but smile at the youth. "Wait here."

Tessa went into the office and Richie followed her, waiting in the doorway. She procured a medium sized but rather heavy looking bag, which she handed off to Richie with an ungraceful swing of the strap. Richie wasn't expecting the move and caught the bag with both hands as it impacted the left side of his stomach near his stitches. His face went ghost-white from the sudden searing pain in his gut, but Tessa didn't notice as she had already walked past him.

"You can roll these coins," she informed him as she made her way back to the register. "There should be plenty of rolls in the bag."

Richie let the bag fall from his hands and it hit the floor on its side with an unceremonious clang-thud. Some of the coins and rolls spilled from the bag.

"Of course," Richie said to himself through gritted teeth. He crouched down gingerly for the pain of his injury and began to gather the spilt contents and return them to the bag.

"Not in there," came Tessa's voice from the shop. "The office is off limits to you. Find someplace else."

Richie bit back a choice comment as he finished gathering up the spilt coins. With enormous effort he stood up, carrying the bag in both hands.

"Sorry Mrs. Noel," Richie demurred, opting to apologize rather than explain that he simply dropped the bag. Looking clumsy was probably the worst thing a new employee of an antique store could do. "I'll use one of the crates in the store room," he said on his way to the back door. Tessa didn't say anything for or against the idea so he just kept walking, eventually setting the bag down on a rather large crate. He then pulled over the stepladder to use as a stool.

Once he was seated he lifted his shirts to examine the injury. He could already see some bruising starting to form near the stitches, which were looking red and bothered by the trauma, and the wound was oozing a yellowish puss around the stitches from where the infectious scabs where disturbed. Richie cursed to himself and swore to increase the amount of times he scrubbed the wound with anti-bacterial soap. He didn't have any insurance and simply couldn't afford to blow this paycheck on antibiotics.

Resigned that there was nothing else he could do about it, Richie set to work. He removed the money rolls from the bag and set them aside. Then he dumped out a small portion of the bag onto the crate. With a heavy sigh, Richie picked up a roll for nickels and began counting change.

* * *

Duncan returned around three thirty, his stained and tattered clothing telling the tale of his ordeal. Tessa practically sprinted over to him and wrapped her arms around him.

"Thank God, Duncan!" She said into his chest as she held him. Belatedly he returned the embrace.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said tiredly, practically leaning on her to keep from falling over.

"You fought him then?" Tessa asked. "You won?"

"Yeah," Duncan said on the tails of a sigh. "Kory won't be bothering us anymore."

Tessa squeezed him tighter. "Is that how it's going to be?" She asked, looking up intently at him. "Phone calls in the morning, invitations to fight in the afternoon?"

"Kory called to challenge me," Duncan explained. "He said that if I didn't go and meet him then he'd come for me and the people I care about."

"But why?" Tessa asked.

"Because that's the game, Tess. Just be thankful he called instead dropping by in the middle of the night."

"Is that supposed to make it better?"

Duncan couldn't answer that. It made it better for him. Tessa still had to wait for him to come home, knowing that he might not. He couldn't tell her that at least he didn't torment them, or go after her as a way of getting to him. Tessa wouldn't care about those things so long as Duncan still had to face an immortal.

"This is my life, Tessa," he said at last. "It's our life for as long as you want it to be."

Tessa still hadn't shifted her intense gaze, and staring into the face of the man she loved more than life itself she knew that she could never leave him. Of course part of her told her that she was just a liability to him, but love is a funny thing.

"It's _our_ life," she reaffirmed. "For as long as I live."

They kissed briefly but passionately, Duncan still feeling the affects of Kory's quickening. She broke the kiss after a moment to spite Duncan's lingering efforts for more.

"You should go wash up before someone sees you," she said.

Duncan sighed again, this time in resigned frustration. "Yeah," he agreed. "I won't be long," he said as he made his way up the stairs into the loft.

Once he departed Tessa made he way to the office. She shut the door part way so she could still hear the door chimes. Sinking down into the chair she cried out the last of her worry and frustration. She kept her tears as silent as possible, making generous use of the box of tissues on the desk. Once again she was forced to wait for Duncan to come home. This time, however, she was certain that he would indeed be coming back to her. That didn't make the waiting and the worrying any easier to bear, however.

After a good ten minutes to herself and her emotions, Tessa made her way into her workshop and the sink there. She splashed some water on her face to return her coloring to normal. When she approached the storeroom door she heard Richie's monotone voice counting the coins, along with small scraping and clanging sounds. She decided against letting her presence known because she decided that she still looked a wreck.

She went back to the antique store and returned to the office with her purse, which she retrieved from behind the counter. She pulled out her compact and began fixing her hair and re-applying her makeup. She finished this task as Duncan returned down stairs, freshly showered and changed.

"Ah," she said as she made her way over to the bottom of the stairs. "Much better." They kissed playfully for a moment as Duncan decided not to inform her likewise.

"I don't suppose anything interesting happened while I was gone," said Duncan when they parted again.

"No," said Tessa thankfully. "Just a few browsers."

"Where's Richie?"

"Oh, he's sitting on the crates in the storeroom rolling coins."

Duncan's brow furrowed in curiosity. "Why the storeroom?"

"I don't know," Tessa responded. "I guess it seemed as good a place as any to him."

Duncan nodded. Tessa then frowned, suddenly remembering.

"I told him he wasn't to be in the office unsupervised. I didn't know how you felt about that."

Duncan inhaled sharply but silently. It was a step backwards on the road to trust. "That's ok Tess," he said, trying to sound casual.

"Was I wrong?"

"No," Duncan lied. "When he's allowed to be in the office unsupervised I'll let him know."

Duncan knew that this was setting up the makings of good cop-bad cop between himself and Tessa. If anything it would make the boy prefer his company over hers and help their relationship grow. However, it would have the opposite effect on Tessa's relationship with the boy. Duncan had hoped that one day Richie would trust them both, and Tessa just unwittingly dug herself a small hole.

"I'm afraid I may have been a little harsh on him," Tessa admitted regretfully.

Duncan couldn't help but sigh at the next nail in the coffin.

"It's just that I was so worried about you," she continued. "I didn't think."

"It's ok," Duncan reassured her. "I'm sure you weren't that bad."

Tessa shook her head skeptically. "Should I go apologize?"

Duncan was hesitant to answer. "Don't worry about it for now. I'll go talk to him." Tessa was about to protest when Duncan cut her off. "You've had a hard day, Tess. There's no need to add to your stress right now. In fact, why don't you go out for a while? Go shopping, take some time for yourself. Then tonight we can…" Duncan trailed off his sentence, opting instead to kiss her. When they parted Tessa's expression had softened some.

"You're right," she admitted, defeated. "I'll make it up to him on Monday, though."

Duncan kissed her again, knowing full well that she would.

"Go on then," he said between kisses. Eventually they parted for good. Tessa then grabbed her purse from the office and went upstairs to the loft to fetch her jacket. He followed her through the workshop to the back door. They kissed briefly once more and then she departed.

"I'll be back by seven, have dinner ready," she called to him as she started her Mercedes.

Duncan waved her off, making sure the car had disappeared around the corner before shutting the door. He then headed over to the storeroom to check on Richie.

"Hey Rich, how's it going?" He asked as he came to stand in the storeroom doorway.

"Mr. MacLeod," Richie said cheerfully, half over his shoulder. "I'm pretty sure that I'm halfway through with this thing. Give me a sec." Richie quickly shoved the remainder of a pile of pennies into a roll and sealed the end off. Then he stacked it with the others. "There," he said with an air of satisfaction. He turned partially around on his stool to regard his employer.

Duncan's expression changed instantly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, stepping closer to the teen.

Richie's face was pale and drawn, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His skin was given a ghostly sheen by fine molecules of sweat.

"Fine," Richie answered innocently. In truth he was far from it. His insides hurt almost as badly as when he was stabbed, and the storeroom seemed oppressively hot. He had removed his sweatshirt some time ago and was wearing just a white tee shirt.

"Are you sure?" Duncan persisted, entering farther into the storeroom.

"Sure MacLeod," Richie assured, turning fully around to flash his most charming smile.

Whatever follow-up comment he was about to make died on his tongue when he saw Duncan's expression change once again. He looked down instinctively and saw what the highlander saw: several small rust-colored stains on his shirt. Before Richie knew what had happened, Duncan crossed the gap between them and was kneeling in front of him, bringing the two to eye level, and before Richie could protest, Duncan raised the tee shirt up to inspect the wound.

"Jesus Christ, Rich," Duncan exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me it had gotten this bad?"

When Richie looked down he too was surprised at the sight that greeted him. Blood had leeched through the stitching, carrying with it the yellowish hues of infection. It had spread across his lower abdomen and eventually stained his shirt.

"It wasn't that bad this morning," Richie said in quiet voice, transfixed by the sight before him.

"Come on, tough guy," Duncan said softly, encouraging Richie to stand. "Let's go."

Richie stood absently and allowed the Highlander to lead him through the workshop by the arm. His gaze never moved from his wound, his other hand reaching over to prod at it curiously, as though it belonged to someone else.

"No, no," Duncan chided softly, moving his hand away. "You don't want to be doing that." Richie didn't protest when Duncan moved his hand.

Worriedly Duncan put an arm around the teen's shoulders as he guided him through the antique store to the stairs to the loft. Richie made it three steps before stumbling. If it weren't for Duncan's arm around his shoulders he would have surely fallen. Duncan instantly scooped him up and carried him up the stairs, his worry only increasing when Richie didn't offer any protests. Instead he curled in and rested his head against the Highlander's shoulder. Duncan could feel the heat emanating from the teen.

"What am I going to do with you, laddie?" He asked himself in Gaelic.

Duncan carried Richie into the bathroom and sat him on the toilet. Gingerly he removed the tee shirt. Richie's torso was beaded with sweat but had the same ghost-like appearance. Duncan took the thermometer from the medicine cabinet and ran it under the water briefly.

"Put this under your tongue," he instructed Richie, who seemed to at least partially come out of his daze.

"What's this?" He asked, mostly curious and not suspicious.

"A thermometer," Duncan answered plainly.

Richie seemed to accept this and allowed Duncan to place the thermometer under his tongue. He then wet a fresh washcloth with cool water and began cleaning the blood, sweat, and puss away from the wound. Richie moaned slightly at the touch.

"Don't talk," Duncan directed. Richie just nodded.

Beneath the layers of grime Duncan saw deep bruising around the area of the stitches. With careful hands he prodded the area. Richie flinched back, a high-pitched whine emanating from his throat. Duncan could detect the infection lingering beneath the stitches in the hardness he felt in the immediate surrounding area. Where the inflamed redness died away the deep bluish purple of the bruising began and covered a good portion of his left side. Duncan cursed silently in Gaelic. This was definitely not good.

When he finished wiping down the area he removed the thermometer from Richie's mouth: 102.8. He cursed again, aloud this time. This was very, _very_ not good.

"Come on, tough guy," Duncan encouraged softly as he coaxed the teen to stand again. Richie was slightly wobbly on his legs so Duncan once again scooped him up into his strong arms.

"What's going on?" Richie mumbled, but he didn't' struggle against being carried.

"I'm carrying you to the couch," Duncan told him, just as plainly as he described the thermometer.

"Oh."

Duncan deposited Richie on the couch and went into the bedroom. Rather than try to put Richie's tee shirt back on he would clothe him in a button down shirt to make it easier once they got to the hospital.

"Will you put this on for me?" He asked, kneeling in front of Richie and handing him the shirt.

Richie took it from him and inspected it. "What for?" He asked, again mostly curious and confused.

"Because you need to wear a shirt," Duncan explained in the manner one generally reserves for small children.

"But I have a shirt," Richie protested.

"I know," Duncan agreed, "but that one's dirty."

Richie paused for a moment and then nodded. Duncan left him to put on the shirt while he went to leave a message for Tessa. When he returned he found Richie struggling with the shirt buttons.

"Why don't I help you with that," Duncan offered, kneeling down. He fastened the buttons for Richie, who stared at the Highlander's hands with childlike wonder.

"There," Duncan pronounced, standing up. "Let's go." He held out his hands to Richie, who stared at them absently a moment before taking them. Duncan noticed how small the teen's hands were compared to his own as he hoisted him to his feet.

It took Richie a moment to regain his sense of balance, but he didn't appear like he was about to fall over. Duncan eased him forward and then placed both hands on his shoulders from behind and guided him through the loft.

When they got to the stairs, Duncan moved in front of Richie. He kept one hand on the teen's arm and another on the railing as he led them both down the stairs. Richie took one step at a time the way toddlers do, gripping the other railing with his free hand. When they reached the bottom Duncan steered Richie through the antique shop and into Tessa's workshop.

"Where are we going?" Richie asked. He sounded tired and whiny.

"To the hospital," Duncan said expressionlessly.

"Why?"

"Because you're sick."

"No I'm not," Richie protested through a yawn.

Duncan didn't dignify the comment with a reply. Instead he silently steered Richie through the workshop and out the back door to the alley. Once he secured Richie in the passenger seat of the T-bird he climbed in on the driver's side. With worried thoughts Duncan began the drive to the hospital.

Duncan left the top down on the T-bird in hopes that the crisp air would revive the teen. Unfortunately, it worked.

"Where are we going?" Richie asked, suddenly aware that he was riding in the passenger side of the T-bird once again. His voice sounded more normal.

"The hospital," Duncan answered.

"Why are we going to the hospital?" Richie asked, this time his voice thick with suspicion. "And why am I wearing this shirt?"

"You got bloodstains on your other one," Duncan answered seriously.

Richie blinked in surprise. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. "Bloodstains?" He asked, his voice rising. "How the hell did I cut myself? I was rolling coins for Christ's sake!" His gaze shifted to the highlander suspiciously as he suddenly remembered that the man carried a large sword. Then almost involuntarily he stiffened, pinning his body all the way against the car door and as far away from Duncan as possible. From there he regarded his employer with wide, uncertain eyes.

Duncan knew that he had to tread very carefully right now or else he might undermine everything he has worked for so far.

"You're wound's infected," he said, his voice even and emotionless.

"What?"

"That's where the blood came from. You've got a nasty infection and you're running a fever."

Richie regarded the Highlander critically for a moment and then lifted his shirt. He was shocked to discover the bruising pattern around his stitching. "It's not bleeding," he accused. He ran his finger absently down the stitches, wincing slightly at the touch. The skin was hard, red, and hot.

"Not right now, but if you keep touching it, it will," Duncan informed him.

"And how'd I get this bruise?" Richie asked. "Last thing I remember is rolling coins." His voice was dripping with accusation and skepticism. All defense mechanisms had deftly snapped into place.

Duncan sighed. "We discovered your infection when I came to check on your progress with the coins," he explained. "You're running a high fever and you blacked out. I brought you into the loft, cleaned you up, gave you that shirt, and got you into the car. In a few blocks we'll be at the hospital."

Richie nodded after a moment. He was trying desperately to remember what had happened. "I remember I was rolling pennies…" he said to no one. "I was almost done with the roll." Then he turned to Duncan. "You came in, and I remember…" his voice trailed off. "There was a bathroom, and a couch."

"That was in the loft."

"The loft…" Richie shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs, which was a very bad idea because he suddenly got very dizzy. He moaned and grabbed his temples with both hands.

Duncan's worry increased.

"It'll be all right, Richie," he said, sounding more reassured than he felt. "We're here."

They pulled into the parking lot near the emergency ward and were lucky to find a spot up close. Quickly he went around to the passenger side and opened the door for Richie. The teen, however, didn't appear to want to move. Duncan reached over and unbuckled his seatbelt. Then, placing a hand under each arm, he coaxed Richie out of the car. Richie stood leaning against the T-bird and trying to decide if he should clutch at his head or his gut. Duncan shut the car door and wrapped a supportive arm around the teen's shoulders.

"Let's go," he directed gently. "This way."

Duncan led Richie into the emergency room. He found a seat near the windows and gingerly eased Richie into it, hoping the radiant cool from the glass would help his fever.

"I'll be right back," Duncan promised as he made his way over to the reception desk.

"May I help you," the receptionist asked in a disinterested tone.

"Yeah," said Duncan, trying to decide how to proceed. "My friend was in here last week with a stab wound. It's become infected and he's running a fever."

"Name?"

"Richie—Richard, Ryan."

The receptionist tapped away on the computer keyboard. "Ah," she said. "Here it is. Richard Ryan, eighteen, no known address, social security number, or insurance provider." She looked up at MacLeod expectantly.

"His address is 864 Pauling Avenue," Duncan explained patiently.

The receptionist eyed him skeptically for a moment and then filled in the information. "Do you have his social security number?" She asked, once again with monotone disinterest.

"No," Duncan admitted. "But I can ask him."

He made his way back to where Richie was seated. The teen's head was in his hands and he was hunched over.

"Hey, Richie?" Duncan asked, kneeling down in front of him.

Richie moaned in response.

"Rich? Look at me," Duncan instructed gently. After a moment two pain-filled, fever-glazed blue eyes turned up to look at him. "Do you know your social security number?"

Richie stared at him blankly as though he hadn't heard him. When his face finally showed recognition he said: "Tell them to contact Marla Winesboro at the DSS. She'll know."

"Was she your caseworker?"

Richie nodded.

"Ok, tough guy. Hang in there." Duncan placed a reassuring hand on the teen's shoulder before making his way back to the reception desk.

"He says he doesn't know, but if you contact his caseworker at the DSS she'll be able to tell you.

"Her name?"

"Marla Winesboro."

"Spell that?"

Duncan sighed in exasperation. "I don't know—wines and borough. W-I-N-E-S-B-O-R-O-U-G-H."

The receptionist keyed the information in. Several minutes lapsed while she tapped away at the keys. "I'm sorry, sir," she said at last. "The hospital has a list of all DSS contacts for the city. There's no one by that name on the list."

"Well try a variant of the spelling!" Duncan instructed, rapidly losing patience.

The receptionist gave him a dirty look before doing as requested. More precious minutes ticked by. Duncan kept stealing worried glances over at Richie, who hadn't appeared to move since sitting down. He wished that they were in Paris. Then he'd just bring the boy straight to Darius. He'd be forced to drink some god-awful tea and endure a bad-smelling balm rubbed over his stitches three times a day and he'd be right as rain in less than a week.

"Here it is, W-I-N-E-S-B-O-R-O," the receptionist said at last.

"Good," said Duncan rather forcefully. "Can you admit him now?"

"We can't admit non-emergency cases without a social security number or valid passport and proof of insurance," the receptionist informed him.

"The boy's got a serious infection in his abdominal cavity and is running a high-grade fever!" Duncan practically yelled. The security guard gave him a warning look as several others waiting turned to see what the commotion was about. "Isn't that emergency enough for you?" He asked, removing some of the volume but not the urgency in his voice.

"Look mister, I don't make the rules, I just follow them," the receptionist said in a condescending tone.

"Well what does your protocol dictate you do now?" Duncan asked, his voice low and dangerous, the word 'protocol' sounding almost like a curse.

"I call the DSS and speak to his social worker," the receptionist said with a shrug, unaffected by Duncan's tone. For some reason he could never sound as menacing as Connor, and absently he wondered why that was.

After a few more precious minutes ticked by the receptionist hung up the phone.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said apathetically. "The office is closed on the weekends."

"Well did they leave an emergency number?"

"Yeah, 911," the receptionist said with mild amusement.

"So what does this mean?" Duncan asked seriously.

"It means that we have no way of obtaining his social security number until business hours on Monday, and so no way of obtaining proof of insurance. Without one of those things I'm afraid I can't help you. Like I said, this is a non-emergency case—"

"Wait," Duncan interrupted her. "You said one, as in one or the other?"

"That's right, sir."

"Well insurance just guarantees payment, right?"

"That's correct sir."

Duncan smiled triumphantly. He had found a way to beat the system. He pulled his driver's license and a platinum card out of his wallet.

"Then here. Guarantee of payment," he said, sliding the items across the counter to her.

She paused a moment, unsure of what to do next. "One moment please," she said quietly as she took his license and credit card and disappeared into a back room. She returned a minute later, sliding the cards back across the counter to him. "Fill out these forms and we'll see him as soon as we can," she said, handing him a clipboard and pen.

"Thank you," Duncan said tiredly. He made his way over to where Richie was sitting, head in hands. He was rocking slightly.

"How you feeling?" He asked, putting a hand on Richie's knee.

"Hurts," Richie muttered vaguely.

"I know it does, tough guy. Just hang in there." A hand on the back of Richie's neck revealed the fever still raging inside of him. Duncan then picked up the pen and began filling out the required paperwork. A few minutes later, after wrenching some important information from Richie, he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist. She glanced over it quickly and then looked up.

"Have a seat, sir," she said with apathetic disinterest. "A doctor will see to your friend as soon as possible."

Duncan nodded his thanks and then headed to the men's room. He wet some paper towels and came back to Richie, placing the cool cloths on the back of Richie's neck. Richie moaned again at the cool touch.

"Just hang in there, tough guy. It won't be long now."

Duncan repeated the ritual of getting wet paper towels for Richie's neck every ten minutes for the next hour or so, when finally a doctor appeared in the doorway and called his name.

"Richard Ryan?" He asked over the chart in his hands.

"That's us," Duncan said with cheerfulness feigned through exhaustion. It was nearly six p.m.

"This way please," the doctor directed.

Duncan removed the paper towels from Richie's neck and the teen looked up expectantly. He still appeared very much the small, frightened child, but some of the glaze had left his eyes under the regiment of cool cloths. Duncan offered him both hands, which Richie took. In a moment Richie found himself standing on shaky legs. Duncan put a hand out to steady him.

"I can walk, MacLeod," Richie said tiredly, and he fell in pace behind the doctor with Duncan close at his heels, ready to react in case Richie fell. Thankfully he made it to an exam room without toppling over. He used the stool to ease himself up on the table, Duncan offering him a hand up. Once seated, Richie leaned back against the wall, completely exhausted by the effort.

"It says here you were stabbed about a week ago," said the doctor, reading from the chart in his hands.

When Richie didn't respond Duncan stepped in. "That's right. In his lower abdomen on the left side."

The doctor checked his chart again and nodded. He then put it down and lifted Richie's shirt up to inspect the wound for himself. Duncan heard the man gasp.

"It looks like you've got yourself quite an infection," he said professionally.

Again Richie didn't respond, but he winced slightly as the doctor probed the area with cold fingers. Duncan bit back a choice comment about how he had informed them of this over an hour ago.

"Some bruising, too."

"Is he bleeding internally?" Duncan asked worriedly.

"No," said the doctor. "At least not severely anyway."

Duncan nodded. The first good news he's had all day.

"My best guess is it was caused by blunt trauma."

"Blunt trauma?" Duncan asked, his expression changing. Granted it had been seventy years since he'd last been a medic, but he knew what blunt trauma meant. Someone had hit Richie in the stomach.

"It was probably accidental," the doctor explained. "With the infection lurking beneath the surface his blood vessels were severely weakened. It could have been anything, simply lifting something heavy, or falling down could have caused it."

Duncan nodded again, his mind drifting back to try and find any potential causes.

"I had to catch the coins." Richie spoke for the first time since entering the exam room. He was still reclined against the wall, and his eyes remained closed, but he spoke with some coherence nonetheless.

Duncan blinked in confusion. "What?"

"She tossed me the bag of coins," Richie clarified, his voice losing some of its coherence as he returned to sounding like a whiny five year old. "I had to catch it."

Duncan's expression changed as the meaning of what Richie said sunk in.

"That's ok, Richie," he said softly. Then, turning to the doctor, "what can you do for him?"

"Well we'll need to run a few tests to makes sure that that's all it is. Given nothing else turns up we'll start him on a heavy course of antibiotics to clear up the infection."

Duncan nodded in acceptance. Finally something was being done to help Richie. He made a mental note to speak to Tessa about the incident with the coin bag as soon as possible.

"A nurse will be by soon with a hospital gown and a wheelchair." The doctor flashed a tired smile and then left Duncan and Richie alone in the exam room.

In due course the nurse entered and helped Richie change into a hospital gown, after insisting that Duncan wait outside. He was then taken for a blood test, followed by a CT scan of his abdomen. Through each procedure the highlander was right there beside him, ready to offer support and comfort whenever needed. However, Richie remained uncharacteristically stoic throughout each test and accepted the instructions of the nurses and technicians with a quiet resignation and followed through the procedures with the air of one all too familiar with them. The entire affair left Duncan with more than a few questions for this Marla Winesboro for when he finally got to meet the woman.

After the tests Richie was admitted and wheeled into a hospital room on the fourth floor. Several nurses helped him into bed and fitted him with an IV. He was only receiving saline now to help with the dehydration. Once the test results came in he would be started on a rigorous course of antibiotics. A glance at his watch told Duncan that it was just after seven thirty, and that meant Tessa should have returned and gotten the message.

Richie was exhausted from the ordeal of the day. He barely flinched when the IV was inserted into his hand and he was grateful when the nurses finally departed. He scoffed at their promises to return soon, he'd heard such promises before.

"I'm back in the hospital again, aren't I," Richie said with only half-sincere sarcasm.

"So it would seem," said Duncan, once again pulling over a chair to wait it out with the teen.

"This looks familiar," said Richie, the faintest hint of a smile curling on his lips.

"It should, we just did this a week ago," Duncan told him, smiling slightly as well.

"We have to stop meeting like this," said Richie, the smile fully developing in his detached amusement at his predicament. "People will talk."

"Oh, let 'em," Duncan dismissed with a tired wave of his hand.

Richie laughed slightly at that.

"Things were going so good," Richie lamented a moment later, all humor gone from his voice. "And now… Now I'm here again, and I owe you another shirt."

"Don't worry about that, Rich," Duncan said sincerely, "and besides, it looked better on you anyway."

Richie didn't have the energy to laugh this time, but the smile returned to his face.

"I really hate this place," he said in all seriousness through the remains of the smile.

"I don't blame you," Duncan agreed.

"So what happens now?" Richie asked, sounding more casual than Duncan knew the question to be.

"Well," he answered, knowing Richie was asking about more than his immediate future. "For right now, you get some rest. The nurses will be back with some antibiotics for you. Then in a couple days, when you're better, they let you out of here again."

"You think they can stamp my hand or something this time?" Richie asked plainly. "So they can let me back in without any hassles next time?"

Duncan laughed outright. "I'm sure we can ask them." However, his comment fell on unhearing ears.

Richie had fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Duncan just sighed and shook his head, hoping Richie would sleep through the nurse's addition of the antibiotics to his IV and musing that the boy's life didn't seem complete without the addition of many unnecessary complications.


	7. Stumbling Towards Solutions

Richie moaned, stirring finally. Once again he found his movement impeded by both pain and numerous monitoring devices. This time, however, he remembered where he was.

"I really hate the hospital," he whined, his voice harsh from sleep and lack of moisture.

Duncan stirred at the sound of Richie's voice. He had been dozing in the chair next to the hospital bed. "One wouldn't know it to look at you." The relief in his voice was tempered both by his own exhaustion and by his amusement at Richie's statement.

Richie merely moaned his response.

Duncan got up and made his way to the dinner tray to pour Richie a glass of water. "Here," he said, handing it over.

Richie took the glass and drank deeply.

"Easy," Duncan corrected.

Soon Richie had downed the entire glass. "Heavenly," he declared, lying back and closing his eyes for a moment.

"You sound better, too," Duncan appraised, gazing down at the teen.

Richie then opened his eyes and surveyed his employer. "You look like hell," he observed.

"That's because he spent the night in that wretched visitor's chair," came Tessa's voice from the doorway. She was holding two cups of what the cafeteria claimed to be coffee.

"Night?" Richie asked, more fearful than confused.

"Yes," Tessa affirmed as she entered the room and handed a cup to Duncan. "It's now Sunday morning."

Richie groaned and closed his eyes again. He didn't know which bothered him more: the fact that he'd spent yet another night in the hospital or the fact that MacLeod had spent the night with him in the hospital.

"I'll go find the doctor and tell him Richie's awake," said Tessa as she left the room.

Duncan took a long swig of his coffee and sat down again. He had long since lost track of how many cups of this vile liquid he's consumed so far.

"I'm sorry," Richie said at last, his eyes downcast.

"For what?"

"For being so much trouble." Richie kept his eyes on the blanket as his hands absently played with the hem of it.

"Don't worry about it," Duncan said dismissively. "I'd rather have to bring you back to the hospital than deal with the consequences of not knowing about the infection."

"I should have checked it," Richie said, still avoiding looking at his employer. "I usually wash it off when it gets like that."

"It's done that before?" Duncan asked seriously, shocked.

"It's never been that bad," Richie defended, this time stealing a glance in the Highlander's direction before returning his gaze to the blanket.

Duncan was intently serious. "Richie, when has it done that before?"

"Just about every evening," Richie admitted. "Sometimes when I wake up in the mornings, too."

Duncan forced his sharp intake of breath into silence and bit his tongue against a choice comment. Now was not the time for insensitivity.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" He asked, deciding at the last minute to replace 'me' with 'someone.'

"What's there to tell?" Richie asked, finally making eye contact with the Highlander. "It would puss a bit, and sometimes bleed a little. I'd wash it off and it would be fine. A little stiff and sore maybe, but totally fine."

"The infection's so bad they've got you on straight penicillin," Duncan informed the teenager. "I'd hardly call that 'fine.'"

Richie quickly disguised his shock with his most charming grin. "Well it's a good thing I'm not allergic to it then!" He declared.

Once again Duncan bit back a choice comment.

"They figured the amoxicillin they prescribed you wasn't strong enough," Duncan ventured.

Richie immediately broke eye contact. "I wouldn't know," he said quietly.

"Why wouldn't you know?" Duncan asked carefully, though he already knew the answer.

Richie mumbled something inaudibly.

"What?"

"I said that's because I haven't been taking them!" He said, rather forcefully this time.

"Why not?" Duncan feared he already knew the answer to this, too.

"Because I can't afford it, ok?" Richie blurted out, turning his gaze to Duncan. However, his defenses came crashing into place. There was open defiance in his eyes now.

"Richie—"

"What the hell do you want from me?" He asked angrily. "I'm eighteen, no longer anyone's responsibility. Do you have any idea how much those drugs cost without insurance?"

"That doesn't explain why you didn't re-dress the wound," Duncan said, meeting the anger in Richie's voice before he could stop himself.

"Yeah, well, gauze and medical tape aren't something I have just lying around the house, and I don't have band-aids big enough," Richie declared with easy sarcasm.

"Were you doing anything at all to make sure it didn't get infected?" Duncan asked, his feelings on the matter clear in his tone of voice.

"Look mister, on my budget all I could do was wash it three times a day with anti-bacterial soap, and pray."

"There's still Medicare and Medicaid," Duncan said, his tone finally softening.

"Yeah, well, those are for the handicapped and retirees without pension plans. Richie Ryan, eighteen years old and perfectly healthy, is fully capable of holding a full time job and therefore eligible for company health benefits." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"You were turned down?"

"I know how the system works," Richie admitted, this time tiredness replacing the angry, biting sarcasm. "Plenty of my foster families have been told the same thing. You have no idea how many times I've had to fake sick for the doctors so they could get a prescription for one of their own children."

Duncan nodded, fully believing Richie's claim and once again openly wishing that they were in Paris where everyone's entitled to basic healthcare.

All of a sudden Richie's expression changed again. "Wait, you brought me in through emergency."

"Yes," Duncan admitted, unsure of what Richie was getting at.

"I remember having to wait in the ER forever before we were seen."

"The ER is worse than the DMV when it comes to waiting," said Duncan lightly, still unsure.

"Then how'd I get admitted?" Richie asked. "I have no insurance and this wasn't an emergency."

Duncan quirked a small smile and half shrugged, having been caught in the act.

Richie's expression then shifted to one of abject horror. However, he was saved from having to comment by the arrival of the doctor.

"Sorry that took so long," the doctor said as he entered.

"Take it easy," Duncan said to Richie as he left the teen and the doctor alone. He met Tessa in the hallway.

"That went well," she said sarcastically.

Duncan gave her a withered look. "How much did you hear?" He asked.

"Enough," she answered. "Did you have to fight with the boy?"

"We weren't fighting," Duncan defended.

"Uh huh," Tessa's voice still held sarcasm. "Then what would you call that in there?"

Duncan sighed heavily, unable to answer her.

"Healthcare in this country is a sick joke," he said at length, changing the subject.

Tessa softened at the remark. "I agree," she said. "I'm glad my government reimburses us for my own health expenses."

"Is that why you complain so much when you fill out the paperwork?" Duncan asked with a smile.

This time it was Tessa who gave the withered look. "Let's just wait to see what the doctor says," she said, changing the subject. "Then you can go home and get some rest."

"I'm fine," Duncan lied.

"Duncan, after a fight yesterday morning, then taking Richie here in the afternoon and spending the night in that chair, no one would be 'fine.'"

Duncan sighed. She was right because he didn't have the energy to argue with her. Just then the doctor reemerged from Richie's room.

"Well?" Duncan asked.

"Well he's responding nicely to the treatment," said the doctor. "His fever's lessened and the visible signs of the infection are greatly reduced."

"Thank God," Tessa breathed, relieved. Although no one had mentioned it, she knew that she caused the internal bleeding when she accidentally hit Richie with the sack of coins. Her guilt over the situation was immense and unspoken as she chose to focus on abject worry instead.

"Did the infection cause any permanent damage?" Duncan asked, the importance of the matter negating any beating around the bush.

"It doesn't look like it at this point," the doctor answered. "We're going to continue to monitor his kidney function for the next twenty-four hours. I doubt any new complications will develop, but we need to keep checking, just in case."

Duncan nodded. It looked like another night in the hospital for Richie.

"When will he be able to go home?" Tessa asked.

"If all goes well we'll be able to release him tomorrow evening," said the doctor. "Along with a prescription for penicillin, which someone had better make sure he takes this time."

"Oh he'll take it this time, doctor. Don't worry," Duncan said seriously.

"Good," said the doctor. "Right now the boy needs his rest, and from the looks of it you folks do, too. I'll see you tomorrow." The doctor regarded them both critically for a moment, hoping they'd take the hint and go home for some much-needed rest, before leaving to continue with his rounds.

Once the doctor departed, Tessa made to head over to Richie's room. Duncan's grabbing her arm stopped her.

"I want to see him," she insisted.

"You heard the doctor," said Duncan. "Richie needs to rest."

"I won't be long. I just want to apologize," said Tessa sincerely.

"You can do that tomorrow when he's not going to be tired and irritable."

"Well he wouldn't be quite so irritable if you hadn't picked a fight with him!" Tessa hissed, wrenching herself free from Duncan's grasp.

"Tess," Duncan started, but he couldn't find a way to finish the statement. She was right of course. Lecturing the boy on his carelessness, or rather, on his greater concern with money than his own welfare, _er_, on his stubborn pride getting in the way of his admitting there was a problem or asking them for help.

Duncan sighed heavily, defeated. "He didn't trust us enough to admit anything was wrong. He felt obligated to help out at the store to pay for the window, and to repay a debt he thinks he owes me for saving his life." He left the private hurt those realizations caused unsaid as he searched Tessa's face for some sort of response.

Her gaze was unyielding at first, but then softened as she regarded the look in her lover's eyes. "Only you, Duncan, would turn this into a matter of trust," she said lightly, dismissively, forgivingly.

He blinked in surprise, so she continued: "He couldn't afford the prescription, so he self-medicated as best he could, waiting for you to pay him so he could go buy what he needed. You're his employer and he was waiting for his wages. That has nothing to do with trust."

"He could have asked for an advance on his paycheck," Duncan defended.

"Duncan, I know it's been frightfully long since you've had to work for anyone but yourself, but think: is it appropriate to ask your employer for a loan against your first paycheck when you haven't even started working there yet?"

The Highlander sighed, she was right about that.

"If he had told me why he needed it I would have given it to him," he said at last, and it was the truth. Even if she was right in assuming that he would have been more than suspicious if Richie had asked for a handout on the first day, it goes without saying that he would have agreed to the loan if it would help ensure the teen's health.

"I know that, but does he?" Tessa asked.

It was a simple question, and Duncan opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out as another realization struck him.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod may look at the world in terms of honor, trust, loyalty, and all sorts of romantic ideals, but an eighteen-year-old boy who grew up in the foster system does not," Tessa continued. "For him it has nothing to do with trust, or some romanticized idea about selflessly repaying a life debt. It's about propriety."

Duncan blinked. "Propriety?"

Tessa sighed. For a man of nearly four hundred years, Duncan could be denser than a fencepost sometimes.

"Duncan, you saved his life and offered him a job, asking nothing in return, all the while knowing he's a thief. Think about it for a moment. Would a boy like that understand your motives? I know you Duncan, the way you need to help people. But Richie, he comes from a world where no one helps anyone unless they stand something to gain."

"I already told him why I did those things," said Duncan, confused.

"I'm sure you did," said Tessa, "but altruism isn't something his mind can fathom. He's still trying to figure out why you've been so nice to him, something in and of itself he's probably not used to, either. Why would he do anything to jeopardize the opportunity you've given him?"

"Winding up back in the hospital doesn't count as jeopardizing?" Duncan asked incredulously.

Tessa forced herself to remain patient. "He didn't know he'd wind up in the hospital," she said. "He wouldn't have if I hadn't hit him."

Duncan could easily hear the guilt in her voice. "Tess—"

"Even still," she said, cutting him off. "He didn't tell you because asking for a loan would have been inappropriate considering his position, and dangerous to that position considering the way he is programmed to think."

It took a few moments but the light of realization began to dawn in Duncan's eyes.

Tessa smiled triumphantly. "In his mind, he didn't do anything wrong."

"And like an idiot I had to confront him about it," Duncan admitted.

Tessa's smile quirked into a smirk and she didn't refute the statement. "He didn't do anything wrong," she restated. "But it would all be moot if I hadn't re-injured him."

"Tessa—"

Once again she cut him off. "If it weren't for me he wouldn't be here, we all three of us know that. I caused him to be here, and then you lecture him about it when he doesn't even believe it's his fault."

"But Tess—"

"He blames me, and then you and your argument, and he must hate me terribly now. So yes, Duncan, I want to go apologize."

"Tess, listen to me," Duncan said at last, finally able to get a word in edgewise. "He still had the infection, but even he probably didn't know how bad it was. All you did was cause everyone to notice it so we could get it treated."

"But, the bruising—"

This time Duncan was the one to cut her off. "Wouldn't have been nearly so bad if it weren't for the infection," he finished. "Tess, I've seen men die from infections like that. Believe me, Richie is better off having to come back to the hospital. You may want to apologize for your insensitivity, but I'm pretty sure that insensitivity saved his life."

Tessa's eyes widened in surprise. Through her guilt and worry she hadn't even considered that possibility. She searched Duncan's face to be sure that he was telling the truth, and she found that he was.

"Let's go home," he said tiredly. "You can apologize tomorrow. He'll be in a better mood the closer he is to discharge anyway."

Tessa was about to protest again when it suddenly struck her how tired he looked. He had spent the night in a chair in Richie's room, and the day before had been no picnic either. Her lover's tired, almost pleading eyes were enough to make her reconsider.

"Alright," she acquiesced at last.

Duncan couldn't stop himself from sighing in relief, and Tessa couldn't stop herself from laughing at him. She put her arm through his, saying: "Let's go home then, Duncan."

Gratefully the Highlander let himself be led back towards the elevators.

* * *

When they got back to the loft, Tessa insisted that Duncan take a nap, which he agreed to readily once he had showered. He slept fitfully and only the smell of something baking in the oven was able to rouse him. He stumbled into the kitchen in boxers and a tee shirt, barefoot, hair all in tangles.

"What's for dinner?" He asked blearily.

Tessa turned from the pot on the stove she was tending and laughed out lout at her lover's appearance. "It will be beef stew when it's ready," she said once her laughter died down.

"Then what's in the oven?" Duncan asked, pointing.

"Oh that?" Tessa dismissed lightly as she returned her ministrations to the pot. "Just a chocolate cake."

"Dessert tonight? What's the special occasion?" Duncan asked as he came up behind her and snaked his arms around her middle.

"Actually," Tessa said as she wormed her way out of his embrace so she could reach the salt, "it's for Richie."

Now it was Duncan's turn to laugh. "A peace offering?"

"Something like that," she admitted as she opened the oven to get a better view of her creation. The smell of freshly baked chocolate cake suddenly assaulted them in the kitchen. Duncan backed off as she opened the oven door the rest of the way. Sliding her hands into oven mitts, Tessa removed the cake from the oven and set it down on a back stove burner to cool.

"Are you going to give him the whole cake?" Duncan asked, regarding the dessert longingly.

"I was going to bring a sizeable piece of it to the hospital tomorrow," she answered.

"Then, can we—"

"Yes Duncan, we can have it for dessert tonight."

Duncan's lopsided grin as he tried to voice his thanks struck Tessa as something she might expect from someone like Richie and not from a four hundred year old immortal, and the thought made her laugh.

"Why don't you go make yourself presentable," she said, shooing him out of the kitchen. "I'll call you when it's ready?"

"The cake?"

"The stew! Now go!"

Duncan kissed her playfully before doing as he was told. Not ten minutes later Tessa was calling him back to the table. He reemerged wearing a decent pair of sweats and with his hair freshly combed and tied back. Tessa handed him a bowl of stew and a soupspoon when he entered. A moment later and they were seated at the dinner table enjoying Tessa's satisfactory cooking.

"Mr. Borton picked up the sculpture today, while you were asleep," Tessa told, blushing slightly as she grinned.

Duncan looked up at her expectantly. "Well, what did he say? Did he like it?"

"He said he loved it," she said, beaming. "He wrote out a check to cover what he hasn't already paid me, and he threw in a little something on top, too."

"Oh, sweetheart, that's wonderful!"

"He said he's going to make it one of the centerpieces in his garden. He plans to use it as a hold for morning glories."

"Well I hope he lets you see it," said Duncan. "Morning glory flowers are beautiful in bloom."

"I know," said Tessa wistfully.

"Do you have any other commissions in the works?"

When the smile faded from her face Duncan already knew the answer.

"Just the bicentennial piece," she answered, trying to sound disinterested.

"Well just so long as you don't accept any more commissions for a while you should be able to finish it on time."

Tessa nodded but returned her gaze to her stew. Duncan figured that it was best to let it lie for now. The bicentennial celebration was still nearly four months away. He knew that Tessa's artist's perfectionism coupled with the sheer grand scale of her design concepts would mean that the project could easily take all that time and then some, so the need for her to actually start working on it was considerable. However, Duncan decided not to point that out to her tonight. She was still uncharacteristically sensitive about the entire topic, and Duncan had a more immediate concern he wanted to raise with her. He let the silence stretch for a while as they ate, trying to come up with the best way to broach the subject.

He eventually settled on the direct approach.

Meanwhile Tessa had gone back to the pot on the stove for a second helping, taking Duncan's bowl with her.

"Ah, Tess?" He began, slightly unsure of himself.

She looked over at him expectantly from the stove.

"There's something I'd like to talk about."

Tessa's brow furrowed slightly in curiosity. "What is it?"

"Richie."

Tessa let out a breath that neither knew she had been holding. She was grateful that it didn't have to do with another immortal, or so she told herself, and it was the truth, just not all of it. She also knew that they would be talking about Richie some time before they went to the hospital tomorrow.

"What about Richie?" She asked cautiously, setting his bowl in front of him before regaining her seat at the table.

"Even if they release him tomorrow, the infection isn't going to be gone."

"Isn't that why they're prescribing him penicillin?"

"Yes," Duncan admitted. "But straight penicillin is powerful stuff."

"He seems to be doing fine with it." Tessa was unsure of where this was going, but she had a few guesses.

"Yes, but he's in the hospital, and he's taking it intravenously. When he gets out, he'll be back at his apartment alone, with a bottle of pills."

"So?" Tessa ventured. She didn't want to tip her hand just yet that she had figured out what Duncan was getting at.

"So there are a lot of rules to follow when taking penicillin pills," Duncan answered.

"And you're worried about him following those rules," Tessa stated.

Duncan nodded. "If he doesn't he could wind up doing more harm than good."

"But Duncan," Tessa interjected. "What makes you think he's even going to be taking them? After all, he didn't fill the last prescription they gave him."

"Because I'm filling the prescription for him tomorrow before he's released," Duncan said flatly.

Tessa smiled at him. "Alright," she said, both amused and brightened by her lover's attitude. "So you'll make sure that he has the pills. How are you going to ensure that he takes them, and takes them correctly?"

This time it was Duncan who smiled: the sixty-four thousand dollar question. "I want Richie to stay with us for a while," he answered. "Just until he's healed."

Tessa smiled at her lover, and that smile quickly turned to laughter. Duncan paused, worried for a moment that she was laughing at him for even suggesting such a thing. Truth be told she was indeed laughing at him, but not for that reason.

"You are entirely too predictable, Duncan MacLeod," she said through her laughter.

"Excuse me?" Duncan asked cautiously.

At the look on his face Tessa forced an end to her laughing fit. She couldn't stop from smiling though as she regained her composure. "I knew you were going to ask that," she answered. "I've already taken the liberty of preparing the guest room."

"Oh, sweetheart…"

Dinner was finished quickly after that and cleanup was left for another time. These two had more important things to do right now.

* * *

The next afternoon they returned to the hospital with a sizeable slice of chocolate cake. Duncan reluctantly agreed to let Tessa go see Richie alone while he went searching for the doctor.

"Good afternoon," she said brightly when she entered the room. Richie had been watching something on the television, but it was in black and white and the reception was poor.

"Ms. Noel?" Richie was definitely surprised to see her.

"That's my mother's name," she said dismissively as she made her way to the dinner tray. She deposited the cake on the tray and swung it in front of Richie. "Please, call me Tessa."

"If you say so Ms.—Tessa." Richie stuttered, scooting up in bed when the tray appeared before him. "What's this?"

"I figured you were getting tired of crackers and jell-o," Tessa explained as she popped the lid off the Tupperware container. Inside Richie saw a large piece of chocolate cake, complete with chocolate icing, a fork, and some napkins.

"Chocolate cake!" He exclaimed, eyes wide, as though it would disappear with a poof at any moment. He grabbed the fork and was about to dive in, but stopped suddenly and regarded Tessa with a confused suspicion. "What's this for?"

"Well I'm not sure but I think you're supposed to eat it," said Tessa with a smile.

"I know what to do with cake," Richie replied, a biting tone in his sarcasm. "Why'd you bring me some?"

Tessa sighed, trying to find the courage to do what she came there to do.

"Richie," she began, but then paused again. "Richie, I'm sorry about the coins."

"Sorry?"

"I had something else on my mind and I forgot that you were injured. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Richie blinked a few times, as though trying to force the pained expression on Tessa's face to magically change.

"So you came here to bribe me with cake?" Richie offered. Bribes he knew.

"I didn't know what else to do," she admitted. "I figured you'd listen to me if I brought you a peace offering first."

Richie just stared at her, not knowing what to make of the situation. Because she had forgotten his previous injury she had accidentally re-injured him. This didn't bother him, people forgot about him and his needs or conditions all the time, he was used to it. Sometimes they would apologize and try and make up for what they'd done, that too he was used to. Yet none of them ever looked at him so expectantly, the way this Noel woman was looking at him now. It was as though she actually needed him to forgive her, and in fact was waiting on it. She actually seemed to care about what happened, actually seemed sorry for it, but more than that she was waiting to see if he forgave her for it. Since when did his thoughts, feelings, and opinions matter so much to someone? And she was his employer no less! The whole thing just confused Richie. All he could do was shake his head slightly and half shrug.

"What's to forgive?" He asked softly, not making eye contact.

"What do you mean, what's to forgive?" Tessa asked incredulously. "How about landing you in the hospital again?"

Richie was thrown. He hadn't expected an answer. Actually, he had expected her to just say 'good' and leave him to his cake. That's what everyone else has done. Now he was forced to answer her question, the whole situation making him feel more and more uncomfortable.

"Look, lady," he said, sounding more annoyed than he felt.

"Tessa," she corrected.

"Look, Tessa," he amended, the annoyance in his voice now matching his feelings. "I have an infection, that's what all these tubes in my arm are for," he said, waving the IV-ed hand in her direction. "Sure what you did hurt like hell and got my ass sent back here, but apparently I'm told that if the infection had spread any further it probably would have killed me. I get that you're sorry and are trying to buy my forgiveness with chocolate cake, but really, there's nothing to forgive." Richie held her eye contact defiantly and was startled when she was the one who broke first. She wasn't trying to stare him down, another thing he had miscalculated.

Tessa blinked a few times, stung, and averted her eyes. _Was I trying to buy his forgiveness?_ She didn't like the sound of that, especially since he might be right. However, it wasn't the biting, negatively spun truth that hurt her; it was the tired, annoyed distain in Richie's voice. He saw right through her and took everything laid before him and threw it all back in her face. What had she expected anyway? A few kind and apologetic words and a slice of cake and all would be well between them? That must have been what everyone else expected.

"Get some rest," she said quietly as she left the room, not daring to look him in the eye. Richie's victory was total and complete, and that left him all the more confused.

Richie had the sinking suspicion that he just leveled the only person who had attempted to be sincere with him. Now he felt himself concerned with the repercussions of what just transpired. His intentions were to let it be known that he knew exactly her intentions, but apparently he grievously misjudged. To a sincere person his words would have sounded cruel, and Richie Ryan was never deliberately cruel. Sure his tongue would get him into trouble with people, but it was always automatic and in self-defense. Right now he wasn't defending, he was attacking Tessa and her motives. Unfortunately, it appeared that the attack was unwarranted and now he felt guilty about it.

Tessa, meanwhile, had run into Duncan in the hallway.

"The doctor says he's already put in Richie's discharge paperwork," he said with a grin. Then he noticed Tessa's expression. "What?"

"Oh Duncan, _le pauvre enfant!_" Tessa exclaimed, on the verge of tears.

Duncan put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "What is it? What happened?"

"So much anger, so much… pain," she said, shaking her head. "Duncan, what kind of life has that boy lead? Everyone's against him, everyone's out to get him. He sees condescendence and subterfuge in everyone he meets!"

"Shhh, sweetheart," Duncan soothed, drawing her into an embrace.

"Duncan, he's just a boy. How can one so young be so—"

"Jaded?"

Tessa nodded. "Cynical, sarcastic, negative, jaded—take your pick Duncan. How his life must have been if this is the way he sees the world!"

"I know, Tess," Duncan agreed, holding her tight.

Eventually she pushed back to regard him eye to eye. "What do we do about it?" She asked with quiet sincerity.

Duncan smiled. "Well, for right now we get him out of the hospital and back to the loft."

Tessa nodded. "You go on. Somehow I think he won't want to see me."

"Tessa—"

"No, you go Duncan. I'll wait in the car."

Duncan sighed heavily and then nodded. He still remembered his earlier argument with Richie and didn't relish having to convince him to move in with them right after he apparently had another argument with Tessa.

"Fine," he agreed at last. "Actually, why don't you go get this filled?" He suggested, handing her Richie's prescription. She took it from him and read it over, then nodded.

"The pharmacy's not far from here, I'll walk," she said, pocketing the script. "I can get a cab home from there."

Duncan nodded. "Do you have enough cash?"

"I have the checkbook."

"Ok." They kissed briefly, then Tessa made her way back towards the elevator.

Duncan steeled himself for another encounter with Richie and headed in the direction of his room.

* * *

Back in his room, Richie's thoughts turned from guilt over what just transpired to worry about the consequences. Tessa probably ran and told MacLeod what had just happened. She probably told him all sorts of unpleasant things about the way he had mouthed off to her, and if that was the case he could most likely kiss his new job goodbye. He liked his job, and he and MacLeod seemed to be getting along alright (aside from what transpired the day before, which he had nearly forgotten about in light of this latest development). That's a strike against him from both of his employers. It did not bode well.

"Are you going to eat that?" Richie looked up, startled, to find that MacLeod had once again taken residence in the bedside chair. He had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he hadn't heard the Highlander enter.

"What?" Richie asked, confused.

"Well you seem to be staring intently into your chocolate cake. I was just wondering if you were planning on eating it."

Richie blushed and shied away, not knowing what was expected of him to do.

"Would be a shame to waste it, it's quite good," Duncan continued. "Unless of course you're allergic to chocolate."

"No-no, I can eat it," Richie stammered at last. As if to prove his point he sunk the plastic fork into the moist, dark chocolate. Tentatively he took a bite, half-expecting it to be poisoned or something like that. He was genuinely and pleasantly surprised at how good it tasted.

"Good cake," he said once he had managed to swallow it.

Once again Duncan stood and fetched the teen a glass of water.

"This is familiar," Richie announced, taking the plastic cup from Duncan.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You don't seem to like getting your own water."

They both laughed slightly and Richie continued to eat the cake. He polished it off in barely a few minutes with generous help from several glasses of water. Neither of them spoke during this time, Duncan content to just watch the teen enjoy the cake, and Richie too afraid to try for conversation. Only when the teen had finished the cake did Duncan decide to break the silence.

"The doctors say you should be sprung any minute now."

"So they tell me," Richie answered, his voice neutral.

"They've given you a prescription for penicillin," Duncan continued.

Richie's expression suddenly paled.

"It's in pill form," the Highlander quickly added, and the teen visibly relaxed.

"That doesn't sound so bad," he ventured.

"You have to take it with lots of water on an empty stomach. Then you can't eat anything for an hour or so afterwards. You probably won't want to though, chances are they'll make you sick for a while," Duncan explained.

"Sounds like fun," Richie answered blithely.

Duncan wasn't fooled. "You have to take them this time, or else you'll just wind up straight back here again."

"So I've been told," Richie said dismissively.

"This is serious Richie," said Duncan weightily. "Each time you stop medicating it the infection returns stronger than before because only the more resistant bacteria are left to reproduce and spread through your system. You were lucky once, next time, _if_ you survive, you'll probably wind up in the ICU again with more permanent damage."

Richie just hung his head, avoiding eye contact. He was ashamed to have to remind MacLeod that he couldn't possibly afford the prescription, but it looked like he'd be forced to do just that. Contrary to all evidence displayed thus far, Richie really did not want to die, and Duncan's speech scared him that he might.

"Unless the insurance fairy visited me during the night and left a big fat policy under my pillow, there's still no way I can afford the pills," he said at last, sarcasm trying unsuccessfully to mask the shame.

"I've already sent Tessa to the pharmacy," Duncan informed him gently. "You don't have to worry about that."

Richie's eyes widened in surprise. "You really shouldn't have done that, MacLeod," he said softly. He reminded Duncan of a boy much younger than eighteen.

"You need the medicine," Duncan countered, keeping his voice soft and even. "Can you think of another way you could have gotten it?"

Richie was silent. He didn't have an answer to that.

"I guess you can just add that to my bill," he said at very long last. "Along with the window, the alarm, and the hospital bills." The sad, detached tone in Richie's voice would have melted the hardest of hearts, so Duncan didn't stand a chance.

"We'll talk about it later," he said, straining to keep his emotions from showing in his voice. "After you've recovered."

Richie just nodded silently. He hadn't looked at his employer since Duncan's speech about the penicillin. He hated feeling beholden to anyone, and he was tethered in debt to this man MacLeod for even more than he owed Romeo. Richie Ryan was drowning in red ink and didn't see any possible ways out of it.

Somehow Duncan must have sensed what was on Richie's mind.

"That reminds me," he said lightly. "I have your first paycheck ready."

That statement got Richie's attention. He turned bright eyes on the highlander.

"You worked thirty-three hours at eight dollars an hour, and since I'm paying you under the table that means you made 264 dollars."

Richie tried to follow the math in his head but lost track somewhere along the line so he just looked back at MacLeod and smiled.

"The window cost 120 to replace, so that means you get to keep 144 dollars of your paycheck."

Richie's smile grew brighter at that statement. Indeed, his entire mood was lifted. If he took thirty out of that for food and laundry (he needed to give MacLeod his clothes back anyway) then he still made 124 dollars that he could set aside for rent. That meant a hundred went into the rent fund and twenty-four went into the 'buy off Romeo' fund. Two more weeks' work and he could pay off his rent in full for the month and then direct the rest of his earnings towards the Romeo. Perhaps things were as bad as they seemed? Richie just needed to get back on his feet and back to work as soon as possible.

"I thought that would cheer you up," said Duncan with a smile.

"How much did the alarm cost?" Richie asked, sobering slightly but not completely.

"I said we'd worry about that later," Duncan answered.

Richie was forced to accept this, and allowed silence to return.

To Duncan it appeared that Richie was in slightly better spirits. He knew better than to assume that anything was resolved, however. Still, he knew that he needed to convince Richie to agree to move into the loft where he and Tessa could keep an eye on him and make sure his infection cleared up and the wound healed properly.

Unfortunately, the Highlander was at a loss for how to proceed.

"I'm sorry." Duncan's thoughts were interrupted by Richie's sudden apology.

The teenager had gone back to absently playing with the blanket.

"For what?"

"I've caused you a lot of trouble."

Duncan bit back his immediate response and thought more carefully. "Yes," he admitted truthfully. "But you've also saved us lots of trouble by helping out in the store."

Richie turned to face him, but still didn't make eye contact. Logically what Duncan said made sense, but logic wasn't something Richie was well versed in at times like these.

"If you give me the chance, I'll pay back what I owe you," Richie said cautiously. "All of it."

"I don't doubt that," Duncan acknowledged. He sighed silently; it was now or never. "I really hope this doesn't become a habit, though."

"Yeah, me neither," Richie agreed. "I hate hospitals."

"The best thing you can do is take it easy for a while and let your body heal."

"Oh believe me, I intend to."

While Duncan didn't doubt that Richie meant what he said, he had some doubts as to his definition of 'taking it easy.'

"I mean, you've proven yourself to be a valuable asset to the store. I can't have my best employee laid up all the time because he doesn't follow doctor's orders."

Richie's expression changed again. Did MacLeod just say 'asset' and 'best employee' when referring to him? That can't be right, can it?

"Hey, I won't let you down MacLeod. Just give me those pills and a few days off and I'll be good as new," Richie said with a grin, spurred on by what he perceived to be Duncan's off-hand comment.

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Duncan agreed, returning the grin.

Richie could hardly believe his ears. Unfortunately, that which seems too good to be true usually is, and all of Richie's defenses snapped into place as soon as Duncan's expression changed. "There's one slight complication, however," Duncan continued said seriously.

"And what's that?" Richie asked, the defiance returning to his voice, barely concealed by caution.

"I'm afraid your lifestyle isn't exactly conducive to taking it easy."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Richie asked defensively.

"It means that when the doctors say 'take it easy for a while' they mean lots of bed rest, plenty of good food, fluids, and absolutely no extraneous expenditure of energy. Quite frankly Richie, I don't see you as being capable of complying in that tiny second floor apartment of yours."

Richie opened his mouth as if to protest, but no words formed. He hated to admit it but MacLeod was right. He needed to go shopping, do laundry, clean, patch the ceiling in the kitchen from when the roof leaked—the list seemed endless, and he couldn't go home and ignore what needed to be done. He also hated MacLeod for seeing that about him and his living situation.

"I'm quite capable of taking it easy, thank you," he said sarcastically instead.

"Sure you are," Duncan returned matter-of-factly.

"Just give me some pills, a pillow, and the remote control and I'll write the book on taking it easy."

"Sure you will."

"Damn straight."

"From the loft."

Richie's constant flow of sarcastic remarks was suddenly violently derailed. _Did he just say what I _think_ he said?_

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Duncan held his breath, prepared to hold his ground. Richie wasn't leaving the hospital unless it was to the loft.

"Yeah I heard you, but, what do you mean?" Richie asked, frightened, excited, disbelieving, and hopeful all at once, but mostly just confused. _Why would the man open his home to me? I'm just the employee, and a thief._

"I mean I've got too much invested in you to leave you to your own devices," Duncan explained. He hoped that explaining his concern to Richie on this level would get though to the teen. "When you're discharged you'll be staying at the loft until with us you're back on your feet again."

"You want me to stay with you guys?" Richie asked for clarification.

"Just 'til you're over your infection. Then you can move back into your apartment."

"But, why?"

Duncan could tell that there was a lot more tagged to that simple question than simply the face value of it. However, now was not the time nor place to discuss such things. Hopefully, as Richie got to know Duncan better, and therefore grew to trust him more, he'd be able to answer his own questions about why.

"Because I'm tired of rushing you to the hospital. Its time consuming and expensive, and I don't want your luck to run out. You can worry about paying me back or whatever else you feel is necessary some other time. Right now, as your employer, I want to make sure you get better. You do excellent work in the store but you're talents are being wasted while you're flat on your back. I want you on your feet again as soon as possible, and the best way to ensure that is to keep an eye on you myself."

Duncan felt physically ill saying those words. He sounded cold, unfeeling, and completely separate from himself and his true meanings. However, such steps were necessary. Richie's health had to come first. Hopefully living under the same roof for a while will let Richie see that he truly cares about him and on a level greater than the exploitation of an employee. Once back in the loft Duncan could worry about cultivating the type of relationship he wants with the boy. Right now, he just had to make sure that he got him there.

"What does Tessa think?" Richie asked at length, trying to keep his voice neutral. Everything MacLeod said had made sense. Richie kept screwing up and MacLeod was justified in tiring of it. Actually, Richie had to give him props for lasting this long before voicing his annoyance, considering the headache he's been to the man. Now MacLeod was tired of picking up the pieces of Richie's too many mistakes and wanted to ensure that nothing else happened before he was able to pay back his debts. Richie could understand that. In fact, he was secretly grateful for it. No one else would bother to take the time to ensure that he followed the doctor's orders. Everyone else would have either left him to die the first time, abandoned him after saving his life, let him suffer through the raging infection, or fired him, or not cared about what happened upon his release from the hospital this time around. MacLeod kept defying conventions by caring so much about his welfare. Even if the concern was based on purely business reasons, it was concern nonetheless, and Richie had never had someone so constantly concerned with him in his entire life. He was simultaneously delighted, suspicious, and frightened by the prospect.

"I've talked it over with her and she agrees with me," Duncan answered.

Richie nodded. "You're sure that this is for the best?" He asked weakly.

"We're sure," Duncan answered seriously.

Richie just nodded again. "Ok," he said. His voice was quiet and his tone was warring between forced neutrality and sagging defeat, but that didn't matter. Richie had just agreed. Duncan couldn't keep himself from smiling.

"I'm going to see if I can find the doctor and speed things up a bit," he said, standing and heading towards the door. "Don't go anywhere."

Richie half smiled and bobbed his head in an awkward nod at Duncan's comment as the Highlander left the room.

Walking down the hallway Duncan could have skipped and jumped for joy. Richie was moving in with them, at least temporarily. He would be able to build their relationship into friendship, moving beyond simply one of business. Richie could make amends with Tessa, too, and a unified front was the most preferable. Richie far from trusted them yet (and Duncan suspected that the teen had more layers and levels of trust than most immortals do), but he could work on that. He was just given the golden opportunity to. Now all he needed to do was find that doctor.


	8. Houseguest

Once Richie was released from the hospital, he and Duncan mad a quick stop off at his apartment so that he could gather a few necessities. The prescription provided enough penicillin for ten days, and Duncan was determined to ensure that the infection had fully cleared before turning the teen loose, so he informed him to pack enough for a two-week stay. Richie's lack of clean laundry made packing a challenge, but at least he remembered essentials like his toothbrush.

When they returned to the loft, Duncan gave Richie the grand tour. He was mightily impressed with the size of the kitchen and how it opened into the equally spacious dining area and living room, complete with the most expensive-looking entertainment system Richie had ever seen in private homes. Suddenly spending two weeks on MacLeod's couch didn't sound so bad.

He was also greatly impressed with the open shower in the middle of the room.

"Interesting place for a shower," he quipped, surveying the mostly transparent glass tiles with impure thoughts. "Not very private though."

Duncan could only grin. "Since it's usually just Tessa and I, the issue of privacy doesn't come up too often," he said, only the twinkle in his eye betraying his matter-of-fact tone. After all, it was rather difficult to think of that shower as just a functional devise. "We have a full, _private_ bath back here," he added, leading the teen down the hallway.

The bathroom was at the end of the hall across from the master bedroom. Richie eyed the expensive-looking bathroom fixtures with a mixture of awe and envy, letting his eyes linger on the luxurious whirlpool tub.

When they exited the bathroom, Richie naturally poked his head into the master bedroom. It was open and spacious, surprisingly clean, and the queen-sized canopy bed reminded Richie of the kind one sees on display at department and furniture stores.

"Wow…" He breathed distractedly.

Again Duncan could only grin at him. "That's our room," he said through that smile.

"I know, I know. Off limits, right?" If ever there existed a sincere form of sarcasm, Richie was the one to find it. Duncan regarded him curiously for a moment in surprise, trying to make sense of the words in the statement and match them to the tone of voice.

"Just knock before you enter," he answered at last.

Now Richie blinked in surprise. "You mean you aren't going to lecture me about staying out of there when you guys aren't there to supervise, and about how I really have no business going in your bedroom anyway?"

"Do I need to?" Duncan asked earnestly. This only served to confuse Richie all the more. At his expression Duncan added: "we've moved you into the spare bedroom, and while you're healing from your wound and infection I don't want you anywhere but in that bed or on the couch in front of the TV unless it's to use the bathroom. If you have a problem in the middle of the night, don't be afraid to knock. In fact, I insist on it. I'm a light sleeper; I'll here you. Other than that there's no earthly reason for you to be interested in the master bedroom, so I figured it was pointless to warn you to stay out of it."

Richie nodded slowly, processing what Duncan had said. Somehow it all made sense, but the teen wasn't exactly sure how.

"But, I'm a thief. Aren't you worried that I'll sneak in and steal something while your back is turned?"

Duncan bit his tongue against the first response that came to mind. He took a brief pause, choosing his next words carefully.

"Correction: you _were_ a thief. Now you're an employee, and more importantly, a guest in our home. That makes me your host as well as your employer. Therefore I'll treat you with all the respect that these roles demand, and I only expect you to reciprocate that respect." Duncan paused to see if Richie was following him, which he was in his own convoluted way of looking at things. Logic was definitely the key to building a relationship with the boy. If things make logical sense then there's no way to argue effectively against them. Thusly Duncan continued,

"If our roles were reversed, would you appreciate me rifling through your things while _your_ back was turned?"

Richie haphazardly opened his mouth to reply but Duncan cut him off by answering his own question.

"Of course not. It's inappropriate behavior for a guest. I simply expect you to respect the nature of our arrangement." After the longwinded explanation Duncan finally sighed. He regarded the teen with aged, compassionate eyes. "I had hoped you wouldn't need such a redundant lecture. Was I wrong?"  
The question caught Richie by surprise. He had been both reassured and belittled by what MacLeod had just said. The man spoke in plain terms about things like respect, propriety, and expectations. The first two were relatively foreign concepts to the teen, but the third he knew all too well. He was expecting Duncan to be expecting him to screw up (again) some how, and was therefore expecting a warning against it.

However, in place of a warning, MacLeod chose instead to inform Richie of _his_ expectations of the teen. Aside from involving 'respect' and 'propriety', things that Richie had never encountered in their pure and honest forms, Richie also saw standards. He wasn't expected to steal, or misbehave in any way, or to otherwise screw up somehow. He was instead expected to display and act on mutual respect within the bounds of what is honestly considered 'proper.' He wasn't threatened that he had to comply, nor was he told that he was expected to do these things as a warning against the expectancy of failure. Instead, he was expected to _not_ screw up, and in such a way that MacLeod felt that it went without saying. He only explained it in response to Richie's initial question.

Not screwing up was the highest bar ever set for Richie by those in authority. He was delighted and reassured to hear MacLeod set such high expectations of him, but also the fact that MacLeod had to explain the nature of it to him in such simple terms brought on feelings of shame. No one had ever expected him to _not_ screw up before, and having MacLeod see (how could he miss it!) that the experience was entirely new to him was one that Richie had hoped in hindsight to avoid along with any other aspect of his past that might be called into question.

"N-no, you weren't wrong, Mr. MacLeod," Richie managed to answer at last. Once again he reminded Duncan of a young boy more so than a legal adult. Perhaps there's truth to the saying, 'those without childhoods never truly grow up?'

"It's just, well, everybody else would have," Richie added, trying to save face.

Duncan frowned. "I think perhaps you should stop comparing me to everybody else. I am an individual, you know." Duncan said this mildly, but Richie's slight flinch wasn't unnoticed. Duncan regretted his phrasing, sensing that the teen took the remark as a rebuke (the fact that it was a _good-natured_ rebuke notwithstanding).

"You certainly are unique," Richie answered through a forced grin to hide his shame at MacLeod's continuing ability to point out what should be obvious to him yet remains somehow elusive. Duncan forced himself to smile back.

Richie was then shown the walk-in linen closet that housed the washer-dryer. This room was next to the master bedroom. The spare room was across from the closet and the final stop on the tour.

"You'll be staying in this room," Duncan announced as he flicked the light switch, causing the lamps on the nightstand and dresser to turn on. Duncan deposited Richie's overnight bag on the bed, which jutted out from the wall opposite the door. The nightstand, lamp, and requisite digital alarm clock stood neatly on the left side of bed as it faces the door. Richie's sweeping gaze, clockwise from the door, fell on the closet on the inside wall, the bed and nightstand on the far wall, the windows and desk on the outside wall, and finally the dresser and lamp on the near wall by the door. The room was moderately sized, but Richie delighted in how spacious it felt despite all the heavy furniture.

Richie also noted that, unlike every other 'spare room' he's inhabited over the years, this one appears to have been done up with care, consideration, and taste. The bed—a double, was covered with ample pillows that were both functional and decorative. The down comforter and sheets matched the curtains and the lampshades in a color scheme of neutral greens that somehow weren't too dark for the off-white carpeting. Richie sat on the bed and jounced it a few times. The mattress felt brand new. He couldn't help but smile up at MacLeod, who smiled readily back from the position he had retreated to in the doorway.

Richie stood again to continue his inspections of the room. His slight jostling of the bed revealed a blanket beneath the comforter containing intricate and beautiful tribal designs. Richie threw back the comforter part way to get a better look.

"That blanket is over a hundred years old," Duncan explained when Richie began to more closely admire it. "It was made by the Lakota Sioux, most likely by a young squaw as a wedding present to her new husband." Duncan wondered if Richie caught the slight hitch in his voice as he explained about the blanket that once served to cover himself and Little Deer. It indeed had been her gift to her then late husband at their wedding, as he had explained. He also marveled at how now, more than a hundred years on, even while living happily with Tessa, he was still pricked by the pain of those memories.

"Very cool," was all Richie managed to say as he replaced the comforter.

"I'll leave you to get settled," Duncan announced. He waited for Richie to acknowledge him, but surprised them both when he failed to make eye contact when Richie turned back around. Instead he caught Richie's slight nod through his peripheral vision and then turned to leave, suddenly not trusting his emotions around any company. This sudden departure struck Richie as slightly odd, but then MacLeod was quite the odd person, as he was discovering. With a shrug, Richie returned to investigating his new accommodations.

Aside from the bed frame and curtain rods, which were polished brass, the rest of the furniture was solid oak, stained the color of sweetened honey. The nightstand was a decent size, solid with two drawers. Richie found nothing in the drawers except for a flashlight and extra batteries. _Probably for when the power goes out_, he mused, overcoming his mild shock at not finding a copy of _Gideon's Bible_. The lamp atop it was of an antique brass trumpet design for the stand, complete with a sixty-watt reading bulb. Its twin sat on the dresser, although its wattage was slightly higher at seventy-five.

Richie then progressed to the dresser. It was the same style as the nightstand except that it was waist high and maybe six feet long, containing two columns of three drawers each. These drawers were empty save for a few bars of soap to preserve the fresh scent.

Leaving the dresser Richie headed to the windows. The Venetian blinds were open letting in the failing daylight of yet another overcast day, but such is the weather of a Seacouver fall. The view wasn't much to look at, just the alley between the loft and the next building. It was old, narrow, and paved with cobblestone. Richie didn't notice any streetlights or other illumination for it, but then he also didn't notice any garbage, drug paraphernalia, or vagrants hanging about. _Quite a change from the old neighborhood_.

One last look into the ever-diminishing light and Richie turned his back on the window in favor of studying the desk. It was a decent sized desk, complete with matching chair in the same designs as the dresser and bed. It was just wide enough to fit in the wall space between the two windows and was of rudimentary design, three empty drawers running down the right side, and a long, shallow drawer right below the writing surface that contained stationary and writing supplies.

The desktop was bare, but the back of it rose into a three-tier bookshelf in two-columnar design. These shelves contained antique volumes of the great British and American Romantic and Victorian age authors, as well as the greater works of the lost generation: Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, and the like. Intermingled with these volumes were selected other works: _Aesop's Fables_, _Aristotle's Poetics_, essays by the likes of Emerson, Thoreau, and Wilde. One shelf in the left column was reserved for well-worn antique copies of the works of authors like Dumas, Hugo, and Voltaire, all in their native French, as well as an even older, leather-bound copy of the collected Brothers Grimm's _Faerie Tales_, in German.

The presence of this mini-library was rather intimidating to say the least. With an impressed whistle he withdrew his finger from the spines of these volumes and headed over to inspect the closet.

There was nothing exciting in the closet: heavier winter coats and what appeared to be a few of Tessa's 'spares,' winter boots, hiking boots, extra umbrellas, and an extra blanket for the bed, although in a more modern (and blander) design. With a sigh Richie shut the closet door and began unpacking his bag, moving his clothes into the dresser and hanging his jacket in the closet (which he remembered to grab a the last minute in the hopes that Tessa has sewing supplies somewhere in the loft). After a brief debate he decided to put his toiletry items in the nightstand, not being so presumptuous as to move them into the bathroom. Once finished unpacking, Richie slid the bag under the bad.

All in all Richie was pleased with his new accommodations. The room was decidedly neutral, not overly masculine or feminine, and wasn't made up of second-rate, thrift shop, bargain-leftover ratty furniture and adornments. It was Spartan without being cheap and its neatness was born from lack of clutter. Even the pictures and paintings on the wall (even though of people and places Richie didn't recognize) weren't overpowering in their presence. The room was comfortable, and comfortable was how Richie felt being in it.

His initial response to this feeling was to be pleased by its discovery, yet that feeling was soon made hollow. He'd feel comfortable, but not at home. So what if it had a class he could only dream about possessing? It wasn't his. He would be borrowing it for two weeks, but it wouldn't be home. Home was smaller, colder, messier, tackier, leaking, included roaches, and in general couldn't hold a candle to this room, let alone to the entire loft. Still, that dingy little apartment was home. He'd almost finished patching where the roof leaked, and he'd kept the place clean as best he could to keep the vermin at bay. It was his, legally and legitimately, for as long as he could afford the rent.

Frankly, Richie was damn proud of his cramped, cheap little apartment in a worse part of town, and he would do anything to keep it: steal, borrow from Romeo, negotiate with his landlord, take jobs from Good Samaritans…

Now fate conspired to arrange for him to spend two weeks in this room, in the lap of luxury it seemed, with two people he just couldn't seem to figure out. _From that apartment to this loft_…

Richie nearly choked on the bitter taste in his mouth.

These depressing thoughts were interrupted by a strange whistling sound. When Richie left his room to investigate he discovered Duncan making tea in the kitchen. Richie stood by the dining room table watching as MacLeod fumbled around in the cabinets for teabags and mugs. The kettle had been removed from the hot burner so the whistling that had brought Richie hither had ceased.

"Tea?" Duncan asked, having removed one mug and left his hand hovering over another.

"Sure," Richie agreed. Duncan grabbed the second mug and set it on the counter.

"What kind?"

"Um… Hot?"

Duncan stifled a laugh. "Regular, herbal, decaffeinated, flavored...?" He offered, showing Richie examples of the various kinds of teabags he had in an earthenware jar.

Richie shook his head with a slight smile. "Just tea I guess."

Duncan plopped a regular teabag in the empty mug and then grabbed the kettle off the stove. He poured hot water in the mugs and replaced the kettle, then carried the mugs over to the dining room table. He set one in front of Richie and then sat down at the chair opposite.

"Sugar's on the counter and milk and cream are in the fridge," he directed, bobbing his teabag in the water to diffuse it. "Help yourself to whatever you want. There's honey in the cupboard somewhere, but I think we're out of lemons."

Richie remained standing for a moment, once again feeling overwhelmed. Then abruptly he sat down, as if startled out of a contemplative trance. He peered into the steaming, darkening water in his mug and imitated Duncan by bobbing the teabag slightly to speed up the process. Absently he regarded the mug: a panoramic view of the Paris skyline at night was wrapped completely around it, the handle was the same midnight blue speckled with painted stars. Duncan simply sipped his tea, comfortable in the silence.

When Richie's tea stopped steaming prolifically he deemed it cool enough to drink. Tentatively he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. He wasn't expecting it to be as bitter as it was and so made a face and put the mug down. Duncan regarded him over the rim of his own mug.

"Don't like it?" He asked.

"It wasn't what I was expecting," Richie answered truthfully.

"It _is_ tea," said Duncan, confused.

"I know that!" Richie snapped. Then he paused, cutting off the rest of his retort, deciding that this wasn't a good time for an extended slip of the tongue. It was a painstaking process, but he removed all biting sarcasm from his thoughts so that he could voice them properly.

"I've had iced tea before," he began. "You know, the kind you buy in packets and mix with water? I figured that this would taste like that, only hotter."

Duncan smiled but tried to hide it. "Those mixes are full of sugar. If you want your hot tea to taste like that then you have to add the sugar yourself."

"That's ok," Richie said, half shrugging. He bobbed his teabag a few more times.

Silence returned, but was not quite as comfortable as before. Duncan paid no heed to the tension, however. He just sat calmly, sipping his tea, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Richie also nursed his tea, but at a slower pace and with shallower sips. He discovered that he didn't much care for tea, but his pride wouldn't let him get up and search the cupboards for remedies. At least, he was telling himself that it was his pride.

"You have a real nice place," Richie said at last, tired of waiting for MacLeod to start the conversation again.

"Thanks," Duncan answered sincerely. His smile was there but seemed slightly off in a way that Richie couldn't place. Of course he had no way of knowing that the four hundred year old Highlander in front of him was still dwelling on another life.

For some reason Richie just didn't want to go back to silence just yet. Maybe it was because he barely spoke to anyone whilst in the hospital. Maybe it was because he so rarely ever spoke to anyone at all.

"How long you had it?"

"Let's see now," said Duncan, returning to the present to do some quick mental calculations. "We've had the store here for nine years, so that means we've lived here for seven."

"We? You mean you and Ms. Noel?"

"That's right."

"Wow," Richie breathed, salivating at the thought of living under the same roof with the same person for seven whole years.

"Were you together before that?" Richie meant the question in all innocence, but at the change in MacLeod's expression he suddenly realized his error. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. That's personal, I shouldn't've asked," he stammered quickly.

"That's ok, Richie," said Duncan, smiling to put the teen at ease. "I bought the store when Tess and I moved here from Paris. We had an apartment up town a little further then, but as soon as the loft above the store became available we bought out the landlord. We own the building now, and we remodeled it and moved in... God, seven years ago last July."

Richie was speechless for a moment; imagine, having a stable, loving relationship for over nine years! "Nine years," he echoed enviously, shaking his head. Then: "Wait a sec, you guys moved here from Paris?"

"Sure did," Duncan answered, smiling at the memories. "Paris is great, but I don't like staying in big cities for too long." He had to stop himself from laughing at the difference between the mortal and immortal definitions of a 'long time.'

Richie used the silence to interject. "What do you call Seacouver?"

"Rich, this city is peanuts compared to Paris."

The teen just shook his head. He had been to ball games in Seattle a couple of times with various foster families, but that's about it.

"You just decided to up and leave, go half way around the world, just to get out of the city?" Richie asked, leaving the tangent lie.

"Well I've moved around a lot," Duncan answered truthfully. "It wasn't that big a deal for me. Tessa on the other hand…"

"I'll bet it was harder for her, leaving all her friends and family behind."

Duncan masked a scrutinizing gaze by taking another draught from his teacup. He wondered if the teen was aware of how much he gave away to those who know how to look.

"We'd been together three years. When I decided to leave Paris, I asked her to go with me." Duncan saw no point in hiding these facts from Richie and decided to meet his questions as truthfully as possible. Meanwhile, two separate things struck Richie about that statement, and he didn't know which one to give voice to first.

"Twelve years. You've been together for twelve years..." Somewhere in his subconscious the decision was made for him.

"It never seems like it's been that long," Duncan reasoned, retreating momentarily into memory. It was after Tessa had agreed to the move to Seacouver that Duncan had chosen to reveal his secret to her. He needed to leave Paris—too many immortals were lurking about and he wanted to avoid the game. He also was hopelessly, madly, passionately, in love with Tessa and wanted (needed?) her to go with him. It was only when she had agreed that he revealed his secret in such dramatic fashion. He couldn't drag her half way around the world and still keep such a secret from her. Also, for some reason, she was the first mortal woman he had ever felt that he trusted enough to tell. He was glad that he'd been right.

"If she couldn't go, would you have left her?" Richie's question came completely out of left field and caught Duncan totally by surprise.

"What?"

"If she couldn't go with you, would you have left her?" Richie was regarding MacLeod with wide, uncertain eyes. They were the only signal that some greater thought or plan was churning itself in the teen's eyes. His face and voice were perfectly neutral and devoid of emotion. Duncan knew immediately that he had to answer carefully.

"The only thing keeping Tessa in Paris was Tessa. It came down to if she was willing to come with me or not, and she decided that she was."

Richie nodded, accepting this. "And if she'd decided she wasn't willing, would you have still left?"

Just one look at Richie's face and all Duncan's answers left him.

"What?" He managed to ask, stalling for time. It was very, very important that he say the right thing.

"If she had chosen her family over you, would you have chosen Seacouver over her?"

Richie's pointed rephrasing cut Duncan like a knife and he found that he didn't have an answer. Would he have stayed with her, knowing that it wouldn't be long before he was dragged back into the game? He desperately wanted peace from the gathering, which many immortals were realizing was on the threshold of beginning, but did he want that more than he loved Tessa? Nine years ago… Duncan honestly didn't have an answer.

"That was nine years ago, Rich. One shouldn't dwell on the past too much, not when there's the present to live in."

Richie nodded after considerable pause. What MacLeod said sounded like wisdom, but was not an answer to his question. Then suddenly he blinked, hard, as if to dispel the thoughts and associations he knew were threatening to show on his face. It was none of his business anyway.

"You should really learn when to tell me to shut up, MacLeod," Richie told him dismissively, his defense mechanisms clamping down like vices. "I got no right to put you on the spot like that."

"'S'alright, Richie," Duncan said, relieved. "If I didn't want to answer the questions I would have told you so." A lie. He would answer with something else as he had just proven. Richie picked up on this as well, but said nothing.

Silence threatened once again, but this time it was Duncan wanted to avoid it.

"Look, Tessa should be back soon. Why don't you have a seat on the couch and watch TV until she gets here? Then we can see about your medicine."

"Sounds like a plan," Richie acquiesced, equally as relieved for the end of the conversation and the offering of pleasant distractions. He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp, making a horrific face. Duncan stifled a laugh rather unsuccessfully.

"It tastes worse cold!" Richie exclaimed, smacking his tongue in his mouth against the aftertaste.

Duncan reached out and took the now empty mug from Richie and headed over to the sink. Meanwhile the teen made in the direction of the couch. Richie had just gotten situated on the couch, remote control in hand and smothered by the large afghan, when Duncan appeared from the kitchen. Richie swung his feet up onto the coffee table.

"Take your shoes off first if you're going to sit like that," Duncan reproached.

"Oh man, sorry," Richie apologized. He quickly slid his feet out of his well-traveled sneakers. The teen didn't return his feet to the coffee table, however. Instead he curled them up underneath the afghan on the couch. He then looked back at MacLeod, who forced a smile. Richie forced one in return and then flicked on the television. He flipped a few channels but then settled on a program. When he hunkered down into his covers to watch the show Duncan left him to his own devices and headed back towards the kitchen.

Not long after that Tessa returned from the drug store. Duncan heard her open the door into the loft from the staircase and met her at the threshold.

"Did you get it?" He asked, taking her jacket from her.

"Yes," she answered. "It's in my purse." Tessa went fishing for the prescription bottle while Duncan hung her coat in the closet. "Here it is."

Duncan took the bottle from her and read the label. Then Tessa handed him a printout containing further directions from the pharmacist, which he also read.

"He needs to take this twice a day for the first three days, but he can't have anything in his stomach for eight hours before he takes it."

"How's he going to manage that?" Tessa asked, curious.

Duncan's brow furrowed in thought. "Well he'll have to take it first thing in the morning. Hopefully it won't bother his stomach too much. Then he can eat lunch, but he'll have to skip dinner so he can take the next pill."

Tessa nodded. "Maybe the pills will take away his appetite? I would hate to be forced to deny him food when he's hungry."

"Me too," Duncan agreed. "We'll see." Duncan refolded the printout and headed for the kitchen with it and the prescription, Tessa close on his heels.

"Where is—" She was in the process of asking where Richie was, but Duncan silenced her with a raise of his hand. He then indicated towards the bundle on the couch, which upon closer inspection was revealed to be Richie, curled up so that his head was half buried in the folds of the afghan, fast asleep and snoring ever so softly.

Tessa couldn't help but smile down on him. "The more I see him like this," she whispered, "the easier it is for me to forget exactly who and what he is."

Duncan nodded. "Whatever else he may be, right now he's our guest, and our responsibility."

"_Oui_," Tessa agreed, absently slipping into French. "_Le pauvre_." She brushed a few stray curls out of his face with her hand.

"We should probably move him to his bed," Duncan said at length.

"But he looks so comfortable," said Tessa. "I'd hate to move him."

"I know," Duncan agreed. Then with a collective sigh the two of them carefully detangled the sleeping teen from the afghan.

Richie barely stirred when Duncan scooped him into his arms and carried him down the hall into the spare bedroom. Tessa hurried ahead of them and turned the bed down. Duncan eased Richie onto the sheet carefully, holding him in a semi-sitting position as he instructed Tessa to remove the button-down shirt he had leant the teen for the trip to the hospital. Once that task was done Duncan eased the still-slumbering teen down onto the bed. Tessa then gently drew the covers over him while Duncan turned the slats closed on the Venetian blinds. Then they stood together in the doorway, silently watching as Richie shifted slightly into a more comfortable position. He didn't fully waken and was soon snoring softly again.

"He's just a boy, Duncan," Tessa said, mirroring what she had said to him the first time she'd seen him in the store, quite near the business end of her lover's katana.

"I know," Duncan agreed solemnly. He knew that Tessa was drifting off into her own fantasies, envisioning having a child to look after the way they had just tended to Richie, himself wondering what it would be like to have a son of her very own to raise. For Duncan that thought was bittersweet. He'd had a son before: Kahani. And there was Richie, sleeping beneath the blanket that had once belonged to Little Deer. Duncan had to shut his eyes; the salt of unexpected tears was suddenly pricking them.

"Duncan?" Tessa sensed the slight alteration in her lover's mood.

Duncan forced the memories out of the forefront of his mind with a sudden, quick shove. "I love you," he said, turning to Tessa and quirking that slight half smile he seemed to don whenever he was trying to be serious with her.

Tessa reached up and touched his face, regarding him with loving wonder and an almost resigned understanding, believing that he too was wondering what it would be like to have a son to call his own and knowing that nothing in the universe can change the fact that he never will.

"I love you too," she said from the heart. They held the moment for another breath and then Duncan brought his hand up to meet hers, bringing her delicate fingers to his mouth and kissing them. Instantly they broke into smiles and headed for their own bedroom.

* * *

Duncan awoke before dawn, or more precisely, nearly ten hours after he and Richie had shared the tea. After donning his terrycloth robe he went into the kitchen. He opened Richie's prescription bottle (after a brief but intense battle with the adult-proof seal) and removed one of the ominously large pills. With unusually warm thoughts towards his own immortality he filled two large glasses of water and headed for the spare room.

He found Richie sleeping on his side hunkered down in the bedcovers with barely his head sticking out. Once again Duncan was loath to wake the teen, but sadly it must be done. Placing the pill and water on the nightstand, Duncan leaned over the bed. He hesitated a moment longer before placing a hand on what he guessed was Richie's hidden shoulder.

"Richie?" He said tentatively, shaking the shoulder slightly.

Richie practically jumped out of bed, instantly fully awake.

"Easy," Duncan reassured, quickly pulling his hand away and backing up.

Richie quickly turned, half sitting up, to regard the highlander more fully in the low light that poured in through the open door and shone brightly in his eyes. That combined with the cool bluish light barely filtering in from outside via the closed Venetian blinds served to give Richie's face an almost haunted look as his gaze questioned his employer's sudden presence at his bedside with a mix of uneasy surprise and slight fear.

"Mr. MacLeod?" He asked tentatively, instinctively crossing his legs beneath the covers and hoping that MacLeod didn't notice.

He did notice, but to his credit said nothing. "It's time for your medicine," Duncan said, indicating the pill and water glasses on the nightstand.

Richie's gaze followed obediently and he relaxed a fraction at the sight that greeted him. This too was noticed, and after Duncan would have the time and mental energy to contemplate it he would curse up and down the occurrences that would make someone 'relax' at the prospect of taking oral penicillin at four forty-nine a.m.

"It's not even five," Richie said questioningly, slightly protesting, having also noticed the clock on the nightstand.

"I know," said Duncan. "You need to have had an empty stomach for at least eight hours in order to take penicillin like this. It'll probably upset your stomach and has to be taken with water or else it'll bother your kidneys too. Since your kidneys have been bothered enough recently I brought you an extra glass." Duncan paused in his explanation to be sure that Richie was following him.

Richie nodded to indicate that he was and used the pause to interject. "So you wanted to catch me before breakfast?"

Duncan forced a tired smile. "Yes," he admitted. "And if you're going to be feeling ill for a while because of the pill, if you take it now then hopefully you'll be feeling up to eating something for lunch."

"Sounds like fun," Richie mused, allowing his tense muscles to relax even further as he assessed that MacLeod was telling truthful reasons for this early morning intrusion.

"There's more," Duncan said heavily. Richie returned his gaze to the highlander. "You'll need to take one before you go to bed as well. That means you can't eat anything for the eight hours before that."

Richie sighed. "So that makes lunch kinda important then, doesn't it," he said, his sarcasm lacking all energy if not intention.

Duncan nodded.

After a brief pause to collect himself and steel his resolve against what would probably be an unpleasant experience from here on out, Richie sat up straight and made to reach for the pill and a glass of water. Duncan beat him to it and handed the items to him.

"Bottoms up," he said with a slight shrug. He then popped the pill into his mouth and quickly took a long draught of the water, throwing his head back to make swallowing the giant object easier. He made a face as the pill slid uncomfortably down his throat and quickly finished off the rest of the glass of water. "Christ those things are _fucking huge_!" Richie cursed, handing Duncan the empty glass.

"We can break them in half next time if you like," Duncan offered instead of choosing to reproach the sudden use of profanity. He then handed Richie the other glass, from which the teen took a greedy gulp.

"You mean I'd only have to take half of it?" He asked hopefully.

"I mean you'd first take one half and then the other, to make swallowing it easier."

"Do you think we could? I really hate taking pills, especially big ones. They always get caught in my throat," Richie said, his throat muscles contracting in memory.

Duncan nodded. "Sure, tough guy."

They both laughed slightly and Richie finished off the second glass of water.

"Get some rest," Duncan directed, collecting the empty glasses. "Hopefully you'll just sleep through the rest."

"And if I don't?" Richie asked, trying desperately to not let his fear show.

"Then expect nausea and some cramps."

"You're right, I hope I sleep through it." Duncan noted that the words seemed out of place with the relief showing on his face at that moment.

"I'm opening the store this morning, but Tessa will be here if you need anything." Richie nodded.

"Thanks Mr. MacLeod."

"You're welcome."

The Highlander departed for his own bedroom, carrying the items for the detour into the kitchen, and Richie was back asleep soon after that. Time and circumstance had made it easy for him to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, practically on command. It was one of those skills for which he hoped that one day he would forget the reasons behind the necessity.

He awoke again around seven to answer nature's call, but the predicted wave of nausea hit like a truck as soon as he stood up. Richie wavered slightly on his feet and sat down hard on the side of the bed again.

"Not good," he said into the darkness. He gripped the comforter tightly in both fists as he tried to wrestle his stomach into submission. After a few agonizing moments Richie felt that he once again had control over his body, and tested the theory by attempting to stand again. He wobbled again, but this time managed to remain standing. He then managed to stumble heavy-footed into the bathroom, his stomach picking up the directional cues from his mind and increasing the threat of emptying itself with ever step that he took. Richie would have none of that, however. He wasn't about to make a bigger spectacle of himself for these people than he already was, and he remembered all too well the way sick guests were treated in people's homes.

Richie decided that before exiting the bathroom he should splash some cold water on his face. Biting his lip against the dry heaves that threatened to overwhelm him, Richie maintained a death-grip on the porcelain of the vanity for several minutes. Finally his exhaustion and protesting stomach won out and he began to see stars. Sensing that he was about to black out, Richie quickly swung around and sat down hard on the commode. His head rolled back as pain and dizziness momentarily ruled his body. A few deep breaths and a litany of mental curses later and Richie was once again held faculty of his senses. He was no longer dizzy, but the leaden feeling still remained in his arms and legs. He moved his hand heavily through his hair, feeling along the scar of a long ago injury and cursed his body once again for continuously proving to be its own worst enemy.

The brief respite was over all too soon as Richie suddenly lost his tentative control of his stomach. He quickly slid off the commode and flipped the seat cover up as dry heaves wracked his body. By now the water he'd taken the pill with had long since been absorbed and his heaving wasn't fruitful. All he got for his rather painful efforts was a sore midsection resulting from the discomforted pressure of leaning against the unyielding porcelain of the commode while heaving, along with the pains that particular act entailed, and the sickly taste of bile and stomach acid that lingered deep in his throat and burned slightly.

Richie moaned as he tried to gather enough of the offensive substances into the front of his mouth to spit them out. He managed this but it did nothing to make him feel better. He still felt his stomach threatening him as he rested his head against the cool porcelain of the seat. Richie had just shut his eyes against another wave of nausea when he was disturbed by a knock on the door.

"_Petit?_"

It was Tessa.

"Richie, are you alright in there?"

Richie tired to answer her, ruing the fact that the bathroom door had no locking mechanism, but all that managed to escape his lips was another pitiful moan. Tessa took that as an invitation to enter. Richie looked up at her in pain, shame, and defeat, but held eye contact only briefly before he was forced to redirect himself towards the commode as another round of dry heaves shook his body.

Tessa quickly bent down and wrapped her arms around Richie's torso. His body immediately shifted to allow her to support all of his weight as he continued to heave up violent nothingness from his stomach. Eventually he was able to spit a few times, Tessa's support making his efforts more productive. When he was finally finished, Richie collapsed back into her. He wound up sitting on his heels cradled in Tessa's arms as she smoothed out his hair and whispered soothing things to him in a language he didn't understand and assumed to be French.

"Oh, God." Richie moaned, his cheeks flushed from the recent efforts and now with added humiliation.

"It's the pills," Tessa said softly, still stroking his hair out of his face. Richie managed a nod and refused to meet her eyes. "Did you get anything up?"

"What could I get up on an empty stomach?" Richie asked with harsh sarcasm exacerbated by the scratchiness of his throat. He regretted his tone as soon as the question fell, but excused his guilt with his pain and humiliation. Then he felt Tessa nod.

"I'll be right back," she said softly, unaffected by Richie's tone. Tessa then slid herself out from beneath the teen and he draped his arms around the commode for support. He seemed shaky and Tessa hesitated, but when it appeared that he wasn't about to topple over she left him there and headed for the kitchen only to return a brief moment later with a glass of water. "Here," she said, bending down to him. "Drink this."

Richie eyed the glass with suspicion. His stomach was cooperating for the moment but still felt dreadfully uneasy. He doubted that he'd be able to keep even water down. When he took the glass he used the first sips to gargle and rinse the taste and acid burn from his mouth.

"Drink it," Tessa instructed. "Your stomach is looking for something to throw up. If you give it what it wants you'll feel better."

After a brief pause Richie remembered that throwing up actual substances usually made his stomach feel better so he decided to trust that the Noel woman knew what she was talking about. He greedily gulped the water, not heeding her next instructions to take it easy. Suddenly the violent churning sensations returned and Richie heaved again, but this time a stream of bile and acid-colored water ejected itself from his stomach. Another breath and more followed. At some point he realized that Tessa was supporting him again.

After round three Richie's stomach seemed to quiet down. Once again he reclined back into Tessa's embrace. She reached over to the toilet paper and unraveled a few sheets, which she then tore off and handed to the teen. Richie wiped his mouth and dabbed the wad on his tongue to help eliminate the taste. When he threw the wad away Tessa asked,

"Do you feel better, petit?"

Richie nodded, once again feeling guilty about his earlier outburst.

"Yeah," he managed to say. His voice sounded tired and hoarse.

Tessa took the empty glass and stretched up to reach the sink. Richie shifted off of her and sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor. Tessa refilled the glass with water and handed it to the teen.

"If don't think you're going to throw up you can drink this, only take small sips this time," she instructed as he took the glass. "Otherwise just rinse your mouth."

Richie decided that he didn't want to tempt fate and so chose to gargle and rinse again. He did this until he ran out of water in the glass. All the while Tessa sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking on but saying nothing.

"What time is it?" Richie asked at last. He had finished rinsing and was now leaning back against the wall next to the commode, staring up at Tessa, whom he noticed was wearing a simple light pink silk robe with embroidered flowers. She was also barefoot, hair undone, and without makeup. Her face was drawn and tired, but still as lovely as he had remembered from that first moment he'd seen her in the store that night. Somehow this made his humiliation both better and worse.

"I'm guessing it's around seven thirty," she answered.

Richie nodded and reclined his head against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. Briefly his exhaustion warred with his taste buds as he tried to decide how badly he wanted to brush his teeth. Eventually exhaustion won out, aided by the fact that he would have to ask Tessa to fetch his toothbrush from the nightstand.

"How do you feel?" She asked when he rolled his head forward again and looked up at her.

He sighed heavily. "Better," Richie answered truthfully. For the moment he and his stomach had entered into an uneasy truce.

"What do you feel like doing?"

"Sleeping!" He said enthusiastically.

This brokered a grin from Tessa. "Come on then," she said, standing and offering him a hand up. Richie hesitated a moment before accepting, but to his surprise she hefted him to his feet with relative ease. _This Noel woman is stronger than she looks!_

Tessa guided him back to the spare room, one hand at the small of his back. However, he wasn't surprised when she excused herself and disappeared as soon as his body made contact with that mattress. What did surprise him was that she returned a moment later carrying a large saucepan.

"Keep this by your bed in case you feel that you can't make it to the bathroom," she instructed as she handed it to him. Richie regarded the pan quizzically in his hands for a moment before putting it down on the other side of the mattress.

"Thanks," he muttered.

Tessa only smiled at him. "Get some sleep, petit. I'll check on you later."

Richie nodded and proceeded to make himself comfortable once again. Tessa turned to go but Richie's voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

"Where's Mr. MacLeod?" He asked, worried that his employer might have been privy to what just transpired.

"Don't worry," Tessa said when she turned around. "He's still out on his morning run."

Richie sighed with obvious relief at this last chance to save face with his employer.

"You won't—"

"Don't worry, Richie," she said with a smile, knowing exactly what Richie was thinking. "Your secret is safe with me."

Richie smiled broadly back at her, eternally grateful. Then Tessa exited the room, shutting the door most of the way on her way out.

Richie tossed and turned a few times, trying to get comfortable while not placing any undue pressure on his abdomen. On top of the exhaustion of his stomach muscles from their recent ordeal his stitches started hurting him from the strain as well. He recognized the dull ache and groaned, knowing that the tension in his abdomen had pulled at the stitches. When he ran his fingers down their length he discovered all stitches still in tact. Examining those fingers revealed that the wound wasn't leaking around the stitches. While fervently wishing that he could have those infernal things removed from his body Richie decided that he could just ignore the pain along with the rest of it and get some much-needed sleep. The last thing he was aware of when unconsciousness claimed him was the sound of running water.


	9. Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

Richie was lucky enough to not be awakened by illness for the rest of the morning. He didn't rouse from his slumber until Tessa knocked on his door just after one p.m. If he was planning on eating anything before another eight hours of medically enforced starvation, he would need to do it soon.

"_Petit?_"

Tessa pushed the door open most of the way. When that got no response she tentatively crossed the threshold and entered the room. The tangled mass of covers that one could only assume served to cover a sleeping human form showed no signs of awareness to her intrusion.

"Richie?" She called again, slightly louder this time, as she took a few more steps forward. Once again there was no indication that she had been heard.

Steeling her resolve that she needed to awaken the teen Tessa walked the rest of the way to the bed and leaned forward. Her hands had barely begun the transference of body weight to the bed before her presence was discovered. Richie sat bolt upright, the covers falling off his upper body to reveal his head and shoulders. Tessa jumped back in surprise, and the additional movement was greeted by Richie's automatic response of shifting to a defensive position away from the potential threat while simultaneously snapping fully awake and alert eyes on his intruder.

"Tessa?"

Richie blinked hard and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Memories of the past few days, and of that morning, came flooding back. Any and all emotion showing on his face was deftly harnessed and pulled back, leaving one stoic but very awake teenager sitting on the bed tangled in the covers and staring up at his employer. Only when the jittery teen appeared to have settled down and all knee-jerk responses spent and thus leaving him in full command of his body again did Tessa deem it safe to even breathe in his presence.

"How are you feeling?" She asked. Her tone was guarded but hinted of concern.

"Better," Richie responded, nodding slightly. The earlier horrid protests of his stomach had quieted down considerably over the past few hours, but he was still left with a slight, queasy-uneasy feeling that takes away appetites more than generates illness.

"Do you want something to eat?" Tessa asked. "Remember you have the second pill to take tonight, so if you don't eat fairly soon you won't be able to at all today."

Richie nodded again, considering his options. "Well, what could I have?" He asked.

Tessa paused for consideration. "Nothing to heavy I should think. We have chicken noodle soup, and then there's toast, or some crackers."

"In other words nothing with flavor?" Richie interrupted, belatedly throwing a smile on his face to take the edge off the sarcasm.

Tessa forced herself to return the smile, hating feeling like she was constantly on eggshells around the teen. "I'm sure we could find something that suits your taste," she said, sounding harsher than she meant to.

Richie bit the inside of his lip. _Why do I always have to mouth off?_

"So," Tessa prompted, "are you hungry or not?"

Richie took a moment to wonder about that himself. It was a rare occasion when he _wasn't_ hungry, but with the semblance of a truce between he and his stomach he was loathe to do something to upset the balance.

"Um, do you think I could shower first?" He asked, looking down and breaking eye contact. After a brief moment he looked up again.

"Sure, petit," Tessa said with a smile, genuine this time.

Richie responded with a broader one.

* * *

Richie knew that he most likely spent more than enough time in the shower, but the tub was so clean and luxurious, and the hot water felt so good, that he just couldn't tear himself away. He stayed in, just basking in the pleasant sensations, long after he'd finished washing. He finally turned off the faucet when he remembered that this was his employers' bathroom and running up their water bill would be extremely bad form.

Richie dried off and pulled at the duct tape that secured the Zip-lock bag over his stitches to keep the water off of them. He noted that the area wasn't hard and red anymore, nor were the stitches itching and burning. The bruising had all but faded. Wetting the end of his towel, Richie scrubbed at the duct tape residue remaining on his abdomen. This chore done, he got dressed and tidied up the bathroom, being sure to leave it exactly as he found it.

Richie put his dirty clothes back in his room, hidden in the closet out of site, and took out a plastic shopping bag from his overnight bag and stuffed Duncan's button-down shirt inside it to join the rest of the clothes the highlander had lent him. Remembering where the laundry room is, Richie exited his room only to run into Tessa in the hallway.

"Mrs.—Tessa!" He stammered, stopping short so as to not crash into her.

"Richie," she acknowledged, stepping back to give the teen some room. "Do you feel better for your shower?"

Richie nodded. "Much. Hospitals leave you feeling so dirty."

Tessa nodded, flashing a reminiscent smile. "I know what you mean," she said. "I felt the same way when I had my appendix taken out."

Richie returned the smile and nodded back, feeling awkward. Then he remembered the bag in his hand. "Um, here's the clothes Mr. MacLeod lent me," he said, proffering the bag. "What should I do with them, they're dirty."

"Oh, I'll take them," Tessa answered, taking the bag. "I'll put them with the dirty clothes and wash them later." Then she disappeared into the walk in closet across the hall, returning a second later.

"Now, have you decided about what you want for lunch?"

Richie paused, considering. He had meant to think about eating whilst in the shower to see if his stomach would either get hungry, upset, or indifferent, but he was soon distracted and never recovered.

"Ah, did you say you could make toast?" He answered finally.

"Sure," Tessa said with a smile. She then led him down the hall into the kitchen. "I should probably make it on white bread since you're stomach's been upset," she said, not looking at him as she rummaged in the breadbox for the correct loaf. "How many slices do you want?" She looked over her shoulder at him this time.

Richie shrugged. "I dunno. Three I guess."

Tessa removed three slices of bread and put them into the four-slice toaster all together. After depressing the lever, she put the loaf away and grabbed a clean plate from the drying rack by the sink.

"Why don't you go watch television?" She suggested. "I'll call you when it's ready."

Richie made his way to the couch and turned on the television. After curling up under the afghan again he proceeded to flip through a few channels, only to be dismayed at the discovery that the loft doesn't have cable.

"I don't believe it," he said in astonishment. "You have a top of the line entertainment system set up in here, but you don't have cable!"

"Duncan and I don't watch a lot of television," came Tessa's reply from the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Do you have any soda?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Uh, just some water then." Richie couldn't believe it. _No cable and no soda..._ Then: "What do you use the entertainment center for if you don't watch TV?"

"Well we watch movies sometimes," Tessa answered from the kitchen. "But mostly we use it to play music."

Just then she brought over a plate of toast and a glass of water and set them on the kitchen table. Richie turned off the television so he could eat his perfectly golden and slightly buttered toast. The toast seemed to settle so afterwards Richie decided he was well enough to watch some television. However, he once again discovered the appalling lack of decent programming. Tessa was cleaning up in the kitchen when she saw him flipping through channels with a disgusted look on his face.

"You could try watching a movie," she offered, drying off a dish.

"Where do you keep them?" Richie asked, excitement evident in his voice.

"In the cabinet below the television."

Richie scrambled off the couch and over to the entertainment center. Upon opening the cabinet door he discovered their treasure-trove of movies. When Tessa entered the living room several minutes later Richie was still looking at the collection.

"Did you find something you like?" She asked.

"I haven't even heard of half of these," he said absently, still trying to make sense of some of the titles. Tessa crouched beside him to get a better view. "I can't even _read_ half of these," he said as he withdrew one VHS tape. Tessa read the title over his shoulder.

"_La Belle et La Bette_," she said with a smile. "That was one of my favorites growing up."

"That's nice," said Richie, trying not to sound rude, "but what is it?"

"The original _Beauty and the Beast_." Suddenly the most obvious thought occurred to her. "It's in French."

Richie nodded in understanding as he put the tape back. "Are a lot of these in French?"

"Oh, a fair number, I should think. But we have some English ones, too."

"Yeah I saw that," said Richie. "I haven't heard of most of them though. And they're in black and white."

"What's wrong with black and white?"

"It's not color."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I dunno," Richie answered, trying to come up with valid reasons to back his opinions. "I've tried watching black and white flicks before, they're boring."

"I see," answered Tessa. "And if you were to watch a colored movie on a black and white television, it would be boring to you?"

"Well, no, but that's because it's supposed to be in color."

"What if you watched the colorized version of a black and white movie?"

Richie's brow furrowed momentarily in thought. Somehow his logic wasn't holding ground against the Frenchwoman's arguments.

"Yeah, I guess that would be ok," he answered at last.

Tessa smiled at him. "What about the movie changed to make it more interesting?"

Richie was afraid he was being lead into a verbal trap. "What do you mean?"

"Well you said black and white movies are boring, but their colorized versions are ok to watch. What does color do to make it more interesting? I'm afraid I don't understand."

Richie thought the better of answering right away. He wasn't sure he understood either. "I don't know," he answered at last. "It just does."

"I guess I'll never understand American youth," said Tessa, shaking her head with a smile. Then: "Do you see anything that you want to watch?"

Richie weighed the options carefully. There was nothing on TV, so if he couldn't find a movie to watch he'd probably wind up going to bed, and he didn't feel like sleeping yet.

"Well I don't speak French, so unless some of those have subtitles I'll have to settle for something in English."

"Fair enough."

Richie began taking a more serious look at the titles he could read. None of them appeared very interesting.

"Hey," he said, picking up a tape and staring at the design on the case. "Who's the babe?"

Tessa smiled. He'd chosen another of her favorites. "That's Ingrid Bergman."

"Who's she?"

"An old time movie actress."

"She's pretty."

"That's a good movie, too."

Richie flipped the box over to read the summary on the back. "I always liked war movies," he mused. He'd flipped the box back over and was staring at Ingrid Bergman again.

"Do you want to watch it?"

"Sure, why not," he said with a grin. If it had guns and explosions, as a good war movie should, and the beautiful Ingrid Bergman on the cover as the leading lady, then Richie was fairly certain he could suffer through the black and white shading of the film.

Tessa took _Casablanca_ from him and loaded it into the VCR. Richie scampered back to the couch and curled himself back under the covers. In a few moments the television changed, a map of the globe filling the screen. Tessa sat on the couch as well, as far away from Richie as possible so as to not make him uncomfortable, and prepared to share one of her all time favorite movies with the teen.

* * *

"Wow…" Said Richie two hours later when the film had ended. "That was depressing."

"Depressing?" Tessa asked. "How so?"

"Well, she's in love with Rick but married to Victor. They finally, you know, get to understand one another and forgive each other, and it looks like they're going to be together, but then he sends her away in the end and they _don't_ get to be together."

"But they were able to reconcile."

"But they can't be together."

"But they'll always have Paris."

"But they can't be together."

Tessa just smiled and shook her head. "Did you like the film?"

"I would have liked it better if they got to be together."

Tessa tried hard not to laugh at Richie's almost pouting expressing. Then: "Was it boring?"

Richie felt his face flush remembering their earlier conversation. "No," he mumbled.

Tessa was tempted to make him repeat the answer but decided against it. "Good," she said instead. "I'm glad."

Then Richie let out a fierce yawn.

"Tired?"

"Yeah," he answered, stretching. "I think I'll take a nap."

After disentangling himself from the afghan Richie made his way down the hallway to his room. Tessa watched him go until the door shut quietly behind him. Then she rewound the tape and straightened up the living room with a smile on her face. She decided that Richie wasn't so bad to have as a houseguest.

* * *

Richie wound up sleeping through the rest of the afternoon. The toast didn't give him any stomach problems and he hoped that the trend would continue. It was put to the test around eight thirty when Duncan woke him up to take the next pill.

Once again Richie started, immediately awake, at the slightest touch from the Highlander, who had only placed a hand on the teen's shoulder so as to shake him gently awake. Richie practically jumped as soon as the slightest pressure was felt. Duncan backed away as Richie turned around and covered himself defensively the way he has done each and every other time he's been awakened.

"Mr. MacLeod?" Richie asked, confused but not surprised.

"It's time for your next pill," Duncan explained, gesturing to the nightstand where the pill, broken in half this time, sat company with two glasses of water.

Richie rubbed his eyes. "Already? What time is it? How long have I been asleep?" He asked in rapid succession.

"It's just after eight thirty, so I'd guess that means you've had a four hour nap," Duncan answered.

Richie groaned and sat up straighter to take the pills. "Funny, I don't feel rested," he said dejectedly as he grabbed the first pill half. He tossed it into the back of his throat and swallowed it with a generous swig of water.

"You're body's still recovering from the injury and infection," Duncan explained. "You'll be tired for a while."

Richie choked down the second half of the pill and finished off the water. "I hope these stay down better than the last one," he said when he was finished.

"Hopefully you'll get used to them," answered Duncan.

"Hopefully."

Duncan stood by the doorway, torn between feeling like he should leave and wanting to stay. He'd heard from Tessa that they had finally started getting along. All in all things were going quite well according to his hopeful plan. However, he was still nervous about Richie's feelings on the matter, and the teen's knee-jerk responses to being awakened in the night were far from comforting. He decided to at least try for some sense of conversation before saying goodnight to the teen.

"How does your stomach feel?" He asked, knowing it sounded obligatory.

"The stitches are annoying," Richie answered truthfully. "But it doesn't hurt like it did."

Duncan nodded. "Good."

Silence threatened to resume, but Richie intervened, much to Duncan's relief.

"When can I get them out?" He asked.

"I'm supposed to take you back to the hospital the day after tomorrow to get them examined. They'll tell you then."

Richie nodded. "I hope it's soon. I can hardly move right with them!"

Duncan laughed slightly. "We'll know soon enough," he said. Then, deciding not to press his luck: "Get some rest."

"Good night, Mr. MacLeod."

"Good night."

Duncan exited the bedroom, turning the lights off as he went. Things were definitely looking up. It was too soon to hope for anything just yet, but Richie seemed to be doing very well in his new environment. He and Tessa seemed to have found a way around their awkward mistrust and incidental slighting, and some semblance of trust and rapport was beginning to develop. That's the first step towards friendship, and friendship is the first step towards everything else.

Richie's stomach seemed to cooperate for the rest of the night. He had woken up around ten feeling slightly nauseous, but not enough so that he wanted to get out of bed, and he still had the saucepan Tessa had given him the night before, just in case. After an hour or so of tossing and turning in misery, Richie was finally able to fall back asleep. He slept fitfully the rest of the night, waking by happenstance only just before Duncan came to give him the next pill at five in the morning.

Duncan pushed the door open, letting the hallway light slink into the room. The two water glasses and two pill halves were precariously balanced in his large hands.

"Is it time already?" Richie asked. His back was to the door but he was obviously awake.

"It's five a.m." Duncan answered, keeping the surprise from his voice at having found Richie awake.

Richie turned over to face the Highlander just as he set the water and pills down on the nightstand. When he turned on the lamp Richie flinched at the sudden brightness.

"No normal people are ever up this early," Richie moaned as he sat up to take the pills.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," said Duncan. He thought about using a stronger counterargument, but then again he himself was not exactly 'normal.'

Richie swallowed both pills obediently and drank all the water that came with them.

"It's barely light out," Richie observed, staring at the dim grayness seeping through the slats in the Venetian blinds.

"The sun hasn't quite risen yet," said the Highlander. "But the pre-dawn mist has its own merits."

Richie eyed his employer skeptically, but the man was clearly lost in some distant memory. Richie decided not to press the issue. It was then he noticed that MacLeod was fully dressed, wearing sweats.

"Where are you going?" Richie asked innocently before it occurred to him that it was none of his business.

"Just out for a jog."

Richie nodded. It was easy enough to believe that this was a natural occurrence for his employer. After all, one must keep in shape in order to wield a sword with the proficiency his employed did. Richie tensed involuntarily at the memory, and it wasn't unnoticed by Duncan.

"Do you do this every morning?" Richie asked, trying to relieve the brief span of awkward silence.

"Most mornings," Duncan admitted with a nod.

Richie nodded back.

"You should probably get some sleep."

"Are you kidding, I've just slept for…" Richie paused to work out the math in his head, "fourteen hours! I don't think I could sleep if I wanted to."

Duncan laughed. "You could go watch TV then, just keep the volume low so you don't wake Tessa."

Richie frowned. "There's nothing but news and infomercials on now."

Duncan laughed again. "You could try watching the news," he said. "You might learn something."

Richie tensed again and looked away.

Duncan sensed that it wasn't a good idea to continue with this line of conversation, so he abandoned it and saved his unanswered questions for another day. "Or you could watch a movie," he offered instead.

Richie seemed to relax a little, grateful the previous subject had been dropped. The matter of his education wasn't one he wanted to discuss.

"Perhaps," he answered absently, his mind still on other things.

Duncan felt that the conversation was drifting into uneasiness, and he didn't like the trend at all.

"I heard Tess introduced you to _Casablanca_ yesterday," he offered, grasping at straws.

Fortunately it worked.

"Yeah," Richie answered, finally renewing eye contact.

"What'd you think?"

"It was pretty good," Richie admitted in the way one is forced to fess up when proven wrong. "Tessa had to fill me in on a lot of the background history stuff though."

Duncan saw Richie blush even as he averted his eyes.

"French history not your forte?"

"I was never very good at history," Richie admitted.

"That's ok," said Duncan. "Neither was I."

Richie seemed to perk up a bit at this. "Really? But, you sell antiques."

Duncan smiled. _Bingo!_

"I didn't start to really study history until I got older."

"College?"

"Not exactly," Duncan answered with a sly grin. He'd taken numerous college classes over the years in many different countries, but he'd never earned an actual degree. "Through travel mostly. Learning about the people and places I was visiting." _Living through their history…_

"Like France?"

"Like France."

Richie nodded. This seemed to make him feel better, but Duncan wasn't entirely sure why. Surely he wasn't intellectually intimidating to the boy?

"Actually, I was kinda figuring as much," said Richie, much to Duncan's surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"Well you have all these photos on the wall of far off places," Richie explained, passively gesturing about the room. Duncan laughed at the obviousness of it. "Like that one over there," Richie said, pointing. "Is that China?"

Duncan tried hard not to laugh. "Chinatown, actually. That's New York City."

Richie's eyes opened wide. "New York? Man, I've always wanted to go there!" Duncan finally released the laugh. "Maybe you will someday," he said.

"Yeah, maybe," Richie answered dismissively. "Who's that in the picture with you?"

"Don't you recognize him?" Duncan asked, trying once more to tone down the laughter. Richie sat up straighter to scrutinize the photo more closely. Sure enough that was Sir Lancelot himself staring out at him.

"No way!" Richie exclaimed, finally recognizing the man who had his arm wrapped around his employer in a masculine sidearm hug for the camera. "It's your cousin!"

"Yep," Duncan confirmed. He remembered when that picture was taken, shortly after Connor had killed the Kurgan. The mirth was bittersweet at the memory. After all, Connor had just been deflated from thinking he'd won the prize. His girlfriend Brenda had taken the photo. She was dead now.

"That's a nice picture of you two," Richie added, his thoughts escaping elsewhere momentarily, bit he quickly recovered. "What about the one next to it?"

Duncan smiled wide. "The Scottish Highlands."

Richie shared the smile. "They're pretty," he said.

"Aye," said Duncan, absentmindedly slipping back slightly into his brogue.

"You from there?" Richie asked, detecting the changed.

"Born and raised, not ten miles from where that picture was taken." The photo was blown up and nicely framed, a gift from Hugh Fitzcairn just shortly before he met Tessa.

"I wish where I was from was so pretty," said Richie, his emotions unreadable in his voice.

"Home is always colored by your memories of it," Duncan observed.

Richie nodded. "I guess," he said. "But I don't see any pictures of Seacouver."

"Oh we have some," Duncan reassured, hoping that he was right in case Richie made him prove it. "Just none in here."

"What's that one there?" Richie asked, changing the subject.

Duncan then took him on a virtual tour through all the photographs hanging on the walls of the spare room. There was a picture of the Aquitaine vineyards in France, tulip fields in Holland, the London skyline at night, a Siberian landscape at sunrise, and sailboats off the French Riviera.

Richie let out a whistle. "And you've been to all these places?" He asked and Duncan nodded. "Wow. I wish I could see the world one day."

"Perhaps you will," Duncan encouraged.

"Who, me?" Asked Richie, serious yet slightly sarcastic. "I doubt it."

"Why not?"

Richie laughed but it came out as a scoff. "Well for one thing I'll never have the money."

"You don't need all that much money to travel," Duncan told him, "if you do it right."

"Yeah," said Richie wistfully. "I've heard how people backpack across the Alps and stuff, staying in hostels for almost no money."

"So why not do that?"

Richie paused, but it wasn't because he didn't know the answer. It was because he was ashamed to say it. He was just barely getting used to living paycheck to paycheck, which was a dramatic improvement in his situation. He would never be able to afford to not work and still make rent somewhere. Regardless of how much traveling actually costs, the cost of not working would always be greater.

"I want to, eventually," Richie answered instead. It was hard ogling things that he was certain he would never have.

"You know you can do anything that you put your mind to," said Duncan.

"You sound like my old social worker," Richie answered with a laugh.

Duncan smiled. "Well if enough people say it then it must be true."

Richie grinned devilishly. "Like how everyone used to say the world was flat?"

Duncan laughed outright. "Ok," he conceded. "Good point. But don't sell yourself out yet. No one can see their future."

"Now you sound like a fortune cookie," said Richie with the barest hint of a whine. He didn't like all this positive attitude wishful thinking nonsense. All it served was getting his hopes up. The lower your hopes the easier the inevitable disappointments are to bear.

Fortunately Duncan just laughed it off. "Confucius say, go watch TV," he said. "I'm going for a run."

"Actually, I think I'll shower," said Richie. "If you don't think that'll wake up Tessa?"

"No, go ahead. It'll be fine," said Duncan. "Just don't use all the hot water or there'll be hell to pay."

"Yes, sir," Richie answered, reacting to the Highlander's words more so than his tone of voice.

Duncan chided himself, hearing Richie's acknowledgement after he had turned to leave. Well there was nothing to be done about it now. He would just have to be more careful of his wording in the future.

Once MacLeod had gone, Richie grabbed his bag and headed for the bathroom. After brushing his teeth, he carefully duct taped the zip lock bag over his stitches so that no water could get in. He made sure to take a lightning-fast shower, heedful of the Highlander's words.

After showering and dressing, Richie returned his bag and all his belongings to his room. It wasn't even six o'clock yet, and Richie figured that at six the cartoons would start. He made his bed and then tiptoed into the living room. Once again he curled up under the afghan and turned on the television, turning the volume way down to the point where he could barely hear it. After flipping through a few channels he discovered an episode of _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_, one of his favorites, and settled down to make a genuine sick day out of it.

Richie heard the shower going around seven, just after he'd flipped a few channels over to watch _The Smurfs_. Before the episode was over Tessa emerged, fully dressed and made up and ready to start her day.

"Good morning, Richie," she greeted with a smile. Richie marveled at how awake some people were at such ungodly hours of the morning.

"Good morning, Tessa," Richie returned with a genuine smile. He had overcome his earlier trepidations about the woman. She was quite all right if given the chance. She liked old movies, especially French ones, and preferred to be called by name. Richie had her pegged enough to figure out how to at least stay on her good side if not how to shamelessly suck up to her, and he presumed that groveling for this woman might not be as bad as previously thought.

"Watching cartoons?" She asked, coming to stand behind the couch as she fastened an earring.

Richie grinned up at her over his shoulder. "I'm sick, so I might as well enjoy some of the perks."

"Why do I get the feeling you've done this before?" She asked in amusement.

Richie blushed. "Hey, no one has perfect health," he answered, sharing in her amusement. "Every kid is entitled to watch cartoons when he's sick enough to stay home from school. Besides, my TV reception was never this good."

Tessa just laughed slightly and shook her head, stuck on how Richie had carelessly used the word 'home.'

"I have to open the store today," she said, changing the subject. "Help yourself to all the water you want, but that's all you can have until this afternoon. Duncan should be back soon."

Richie nodded. "Ok."

Tessa watched as he resituated himself beneath the blanket and got sucked back into his cartoon. She shook her head with a sad smile and headed for the stairs to the antique store, affected by Richie's phrasing more than she deemed to be a good thing.

After the requisite half hour his Smurfs cartoon ended. Richie felt his stomach growl. Knowing that he'd better stay away from real food, he stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water. After checking a few cabinets Richie finally located the glasses. He heard someone coming up the stairs into the loft as he was filling the glass with tap water.

"Mrs. Noel?" He called out, not sure who it was.

From the top of the stairs Duncan cursed in Gaelic. It was his custom to bring his sword with him on his runs, leaving it in the car of course since he had to drive to the park where he preferred to run. He had assumed that Richie would still be asleep, and now he was caught, sword in hand, and Richie in the kitchen. There was no way he could sneak into the master bedroom and he didn't know of anyplace else he could stash the katana without Richie seeing him with it. Explaining it away once was difficult enough, he didn't want to think of the implications of being caught with it yet again. Quickly tucking it under his arm, the blade conforming along his back, Duncan hoped that the teen would simply fail to notice its presence.

"It's just me, Richie," he answered, finally entering the apartment. Richie made his way from the kitchen back into the living room. "I didn't expect to find you up, are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah," Richie answered readily. "Well, I'm kinda hungry, but other than that…"

"I'm sorry Rich," Duncan answred. "It can't be helped. Just get through today and tomorrow and you can start eating normal meals again."

Richie nodded. "How was your run?"

"Pretty good," Duncan answered, surprised that the teen would ask. "Nice weather for it, not too cold."

"Why do I get the feeling that you run even in cold weather," said Richie, his eyes suddenly being drawn to the highlander's right hand.

"Exercise is good for the soul," Duncan answered, trying to sound casual. He had noticed the drift of Richie's eyes. "I'm going to go take a shower."

Duncan made to leave, but unfortunately Richie didn't. He was effectively blocking the way to the hallway, forcing Duncan to have to move around him if he desired. Richie didn't seem to notice, however. He was busy staring at the dragonhead hilt of the katana. Realizing there was no way around it, Duncan swung the blade around and held it out away from his body, blade pointing straight down: a warrior's telegraph that he poses no threat. Richie flinched slightly to see the blade move so fast, but his feet didn't move with his upper body and he nearly stumbled, but recovered quickly. He stood wide-eyed, staring at the katana and not enjoying his proximity to it, the memory of that night in the store still fresh in his mind. Yet he couldn't manage to tear himself away.

"I was polishing it in Tessa's workshop the other day," Duncan lied, as convincingly as he could. "I'm just bringing it back upstairs where it belongs."

There was a brief moment of intense pause before Richie nodded slowly. Tessa worked with metals, so the explanation was plausible. "

It's going back in our bedroom where it belongs," Duncan added.

Richie still looked frightfully uneasy. After all, it was a murder weapon, no matter how justified the homicide was. After a few more tense seconds though, he seemed to come back to himself. He relaxed a little, but not completely, and the color seemed to return to his face (which was Duncan's clue that it had previously drained).

Suddenly Richie's hand crept forward slightly. "Do you th—I mean, er, could I…" He stammered, his hand hovering, creeping farther forward.

Duncan knew what he was asking: Richie wanted to hold the sword.

The implications of this were far greater than a teenager wanting to hold a sword, however. The sword was Duncan's katana, the gift of a samurai, and like a samurai he had made it part of him. Letting anyone else touch it never sat well with him. Also, if he was going to keep Richie alive until he was physically ready to enter the game, then having him handle swords in the presence of another immortal is like sending up bright red signals to the enemy. It also could be a sign of promoting similar risky behaviors, which was definitely counterproductive to the goal. No, if Richie is going to survive, he still needs to fear swords and avoid people wielding them at all costs. It was the safest way.

Still, Duncan paused before answering. He didn't necessarily want Richie afraid of _his_ sword, which the teen obvious still was. Duncan doesn't want Richie to be afraid of him, because how can friendship and trust develop in the face of such fear?

Once. He could just let Richie handle the sword this _one time_, effectively removing the stigma and fear surrounding that particular blade and the man who carries it. Then never again until it becomes necessary that he learns how to use one. Duncan sighed, trying to stifle it before it became a groan. He extended his arm, keeping the sword still pointed straight down. Richie's eyes lit up, but he seemed hesitant to even touch it.

"Only touch the handle, never the blade," Duncan instructed, gesturing for Richie to take it.

The teen's hand crept forward uneasily until his arm was nearly perpendicular to his body. His knuckles barely grazing the carved dragon, Richie shifted his fingers slowly, cautiously, until his hand was clasped completely around the hilt. His gaze shifted to Duncan, hesitant and uneasy.

"You got it?" Duncan asked once he made eye contact, and Richie nodded. "I'm going to let go now," he continued. "Careful, it's heavier than it looks."

Duncan had to mentally pry his fingers away, letting go his grip by sheer force of will. Richie's arm dropped downwards from the sudden unexpected weight of it. The blade dropped a good six inches and nearly scraped the floor before Richie recovered. Duncan had thrust his hand out to save the fall, but the gesture wasn't needed after all. Once Richie had control of the weapon he looked back to Duncan, grinning as though a strict father had just placed the car keys in his hand.

"Use your other hand," Duncan suggested, a slight laugh escaping unbidden from his lips, which Richie awkwardly returned. He brought his other hand around and placed it on the hilt, shifting the weight of it in his grip. Duncan noticed how Richie automatically widened his stance and shifted his weight on his legs, his dominant leg leading just slightly. These natural instincts were an encouraging sign.

The blade still pointed straight down.

"Woah..." Richie uttered absently, staring down at the sword in his hand, transfixed.

"Bring the tip up," Duncan instructed.

Richie obeyed, but the movement was jerky. He possessed none of the fluid grace of the Highlander even though he tried to emulate the seemingly easy swing of the blade. The sword was perfectly balanced, but Richie had no knowledge of such things and wasn't expecting the precise distribution of weight. It seemed to advance ahead of his grip and his look flashed to one of sudden fear. Eventually he regained control of the katana, his knuckles going white from the intensity of his grip.

During this ordeal Duncan just stood and stared, his earlier encouragement at Richie's instincts firmly slapped back into reality. The teen had no real idea how to use a sword and all would do well to remember it. However, these thoughts preoccupied him at precisely the wrong moment. He didn't react quickly enough when the blade swung up awkwardly in his direction. It caught him in a glancing strike up across the abdomen, slicing clean through his sweatshirt and into the skin. He hissed involuntarily at the sudden sting, lurching back and out of the way just in time to save major injury.

"Oh God!" Richie cried, dropping the katana unceremoniously from his hands.

Duncan had pivoted in attempt to skirt the blade and had mostly his back to the teen. Quickly and unobtrusively he examined the cut. The thin red line bled slightly then shimmered in the quickening as the blue sparks healed it quickly and without trouble. The remaining smear of blood he wiped away on the inside of his sweatshirt, which had a good eight-inch slice through it.

The wound finished healing only seconds after Richie dropped the blade. Duncan turned back around and nearly plowed right into the teen, who had closed the distance between them unnoticed in his concern for the Highlander. He blanched when he saw the tear in Duncan's sweatshirt.

"No-no," Duncan reassured quickly, spreading the tear to expose his (now) uninjured flesh. "There's no cut, see? I'm ok."

Richie moved his mouth a few times as if he would speak, but no sound came out. "Oh man," he croaked out at last. "I thought for sure I'd stabbed you."

"Well my shirt's done for," said Duncan, purposely trying to make light of the situation. "But I'm not hurt."

"That was close," said Richie, shaking his head. The color still hadn't returned to his complexion.

"But no harm done," Duncan reassured, stooping down to pick up his fallen katana.

Richie backed up a few paces automatically, his eyes wide with fear as the Highlander brought the tip of the blade up.

"It's heavy, but it's balanced," Duncan continued, balancing the blade by the guard on two fingers. Richie stared at the sword, which swayed slightly like a seesaw but didn't fall. Duncan then rolled his wrist and the sword slid off his fingers. He caught it deftly in his hand again in another seamless motion and angled the blade downward like before.

"It never looked that heavy," Richie mused absently. He had backed up a few more paces, eyes never leaving the blade.

"That's because I know how to use it," said Duncan evenly, immediately thinking the better of it when he saw the fear in Richie's eyes. He knew what the teen was afraid of: retribution.

"I know," Richie acknowledged softly, his mind on another time and place. Then: "It looks like I owe you another shirt."

"Don't worry about it," said Duncan with a laugh, but the humor wasn't returned. There were a few moments of intense pause before Richie spoke again.

"I think I—er, I'm... a nap. I'm going to take a nap," he stammered, backing away out of long arm's reach of the blade before he turned around, his eyes the last to face the new direction. He then walked quickly, very nearly at a run, through the dining area, living room, and hallway until he reached his room. He shut the door quickly and deliberately, just shy of slamming it.

Duncan just stood there, sword in hand, staring after the teen. This was NOT the outcome he'd planned on when he decided to let Richie hold the sword and he chastised himself for his own carelessness. He had nearly revealed his immortality to the teen, an event that was to be avoided at all costs hopefully until Richie himself entered the game. On top of that, Richie's fears of the katana and the man who wielded it were renewed if not stronger than before. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Richie was fully expecting to be punished for his slipup by the business end of the blade. The Highlander cursed himself vehemently as he made his way down the hallway after Richie and stowed the sword safely in the master bedroom out of sight. He then thought of talking to Richie, but decided it was best to wait a while, or at any rate to wait until after he'd showered.

Duncan showered quickly, as was his custom, and put on fresh clothes. He decided to wait until Richie reemerged from his room before talking to him. But Richie did not reemerge. For better or worse, Duncan did not see him again for the rest of the day.


	10. Dealing with Reality

Richie ran back to his room, desperate to escape the situation. He fell back into the familiar habit of hiding from the big bad world beneath the bedcovers. There, curled into the tightest possible ball with not so much as a hair visible to the outside world, Richie contemplated his predicament.

He replayed the events over again in his mind. He had seen MacLeod with the sword. Ever since his employment began, and even still after taking up temporary residence in the loft, that sword has never been far from his mind. It was basis of all his nightmares since that first night when he broke into the antique store. The sword was sharp, malicious, an extension of MacLeod's arm almost, in the way the man wielded it. It danced like flame almost, about his wrist.

It was sharp. It was heavy. It was a murder weapon.

Richie wondered what on earth was going through his mind when he requested to hold the thing. He should have known better. He's looked down that blade from the business end, bartering for his very life as MacLeod threatened to cut off his head. He knew that it could have been used to kill him and seriously questioned just how close he came to death that night.

And he knew that MacLeod had it in him to kill. He'd witnessed it himself, how death can come by the blade of that beautiful dragonhead katana. MacLeod had very plausible explanations about the whys and wherefores of that night. Richie understood the logic well enough: kill or be killed, fight to protect what is yours, justifiable homicide in the name of self defense.

In the store that night was self defense. Sir Lancelot on the bridge with the masked man was a duel by Richie's reckoning. They had called each other out and MacLeod's cousin went over the railing.

Then MacLeod himself showed up and Richie saw the blade in action. He saw it kill. He saw his employer—his savior, kill in cold blood. He heard the explanations: self defense, revenge, and other heavy words were used.

There was still an unsolved murder on the bridge, with an unidentified victim, no suspects, and no leads. Richie was familiar with the code of the streets and he would keep his mouth shut, for his part.

Now he was living under the same roof as a murderer. Richie saw the fatal blow. He remembered the pause after MacLeod had defeated the masked man. Taunts were thrown back and forth that Richie couldn't hear. Then came the killing blow, and it wasn't in the heat of battle. It happened after the fact. It was deliberate, and calculated. And the swing was practiced.

Some of it was self defense, and some of it was revenge. But that last part was murder, pure and simple. There was no cause to behead the man that Richie could believe, try as he might to understand, or even to forget the entire issue. MacLeod was a cold-blooded killer.

Richie may have fractured a law or two, but he was never a violent criminal. Well, maybe once or twice, but he would never attack unless provoked, and he would never kill. He decided long ago that he didn't have it in him to take a life, not even for revenge.

Bile rose in his throat at the memories that flooded his brain unbidden and he wrung his hands involuntarily. It was getting stuffy under there but Richie refused to poke his head out, even for a breath of air. He was living under the same roof as a man who murdered in cold blood, and he was keeping his mouth shut about it because to do so was mutually beneficial. Any thoughts that life was looking up fell from his mind with the tears that stained his cheeks. He hated what he had become, hated what he was a part of, and what he was resorting to in order to improve his own situation. Through those tears, full of self loathing and the horrid acceptance of apathy, Richie finally let sleep claim him.

He didn't know how long he had slept, but when he awoke the sun was shining brightly through the Venetian blinds. He discovered himself with his head out from under the covers, but that was to be expected. He had moved involuntarily in his sleep in the quest for fresh air.

Richie closed his eyes, processing the memories that continued to swarm. They were of another time and another place, and the business with MacLeod had only served to bring them to the surface. Once again he felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but he forced them back.

Finally he sat up in bed, listening for sounds from the loft. He didn't hear anything, and soon the quiet became eerie. It carried a loneliness to it that Richie wasn't expecting. He drew his knees up as close to his chin as his stitches would permit and continued to contemplate his situation.

MacLeod was a murderer, and he kept his murder weapon close at hand. In a bout of mental lapse Richie had asked to hold the thing, and surprisingly MacLeod had agreed. Then Richie blundered in his handling of it and came with in less than an inch of killing the man. The surprising thing was that that brief instance had scared him half to death. He had discovered that somehow he had grown fond of MacLeod and that his concern was genuine. How could he have so easily forgotten what MacLeod was?

That answer was simple enough: the man had saved his life on numerous occasions without regard for the personal or financial inconveniences of it. He seemed bound and determined to do right by Richie even though it was never a condition of their original agreement. More than that, the man was just easy to be around. Somehow he seemed more up front than just about anyone Richie had met. His concern was always genuine and he was more than generous with money, home, and information. It was always straight with him, and that was a rare thing in Richie's dealings with people. It was as though he knew exactly where MacLeod stood, somehow believing in spite of himself and his memories that the man was one of the good guys.

It was so easy to forget that he was a murderer.

That duality made Richie's head spin. How could someone like MacLeod be a murderer? How could the man who seemed hell-bent on helping him in any way necessary be the same man who lopped a man's head off after a fight was decided? It didn't make sense to Richie. He was too used to the world being black and white. The concept of gray was as foreign to him as those pictures on MacLeod's wall.

And yet here gray dwelt, lots of it; and Richie was contemplating the matter from its guest room.

Richie had understanding now. It took a lot for him to reach this point, but at least all the facts were reconciled. Now all he had to do was accept them, but that of course was the hardest part. Could he accept that the man who had saved him… was still saving him… was a murderer? Could MacLeod be both savior and killer? Could Richie's mind accept the duality?

But then it wasn't the duality that was the problem, not really. Richie had a hand in the murder. He was there every step of the way. Could he accept his own involvement? He had made the deal and he couldn't get out of it now, even if he wanted to. And that deal kept his mouth shut when a murder was committed. He was an accomplice, like it or not. Nothing would keep him from going to jail, even if his sentence was reduced because of his aiding the authorities. He didn't want prison. He'd seen what happened to people he knew when they made it back to the outside. No, he definitely couldn't endure prison.

Could he accept that he was covering up a murder by a man who could save lives as easily as take them because he benefited from the arrangement just as much as the murderer? The tears began again as he had already known the answer when he'd asked the question. He hated that his life had forced him into stealing and he hated that he chose that night to rob the antique store. He hated himself for following Lancelot and he hated how necessity bade him go along with the plans of a murderer. He hated how he felt like he was being used, and he hated how he knew in his heart that that wasn't true. He hated owing so much to MacLeod and he hated how he had no choice but to accept his help. But most of all he hated himself for how so readily he had accepted the murderer into his life, and how, when it came down to it, that found himself not minding the murder at all.

Richie didn't try to stop the flow of tears, feeling quite safe that no one would discover him. His life was no longer his to control, it was in the hands of MacLeod, his employer. A murderer. And he was content to let it be, because MacLeod was one of the good guys. Richie discovered that he could forgive the murder, that somehow it didn't count for much in the grand scheme of things. _How could murder,** murder**, not count for much!_ But it wasn't for himself that he asked that question, and he shoved that pain behind its proper door and locked it away again. Such memories wouldn't serve him here.

Finally the tears had spent themselves. When Richie was confident that he had fully regained his composure he climbed out of bed and headed for the door. After opening it a crack and listening, he heard no one in the loft and snuck down the hall to the bathroom. Once he made himself look presentable he went back to the guest room. The clock said that it was just past eleven a.m. Deciding that it was close enough to lunch time Richie made his way into the kitchen in search of nourishment.

Richie made it to the kitchen at the same time that Tessa did. She had just come from her workshop and her attire attested to the fact.

"Good morning, Richie," she greeted warmly. Duncan had neglected to mention to her what had transpired earlier.

"Good morning Mrs. Noel," Richie answered, unsure of himself.

Tessa made a face. "I though you were going to call me Tessa," she reproached with humor.

"I'm sorry," Richie mumbled, his eyes downcast. Tessa had a sinking suspicion that something was wrong, but she hadn't the faintest clue as to what. They just stood there for a moment, the pause growing in awkwardness as the seconds ticked by.

"Can I get you anything?" Tessa asked at last.

"Um," Richie mumbled, still not making eye contact. "Can I eat yet?"

Tessa glanced quickly at the clock. "Not yet," she answered mournfully. "You need to wait another hour." If possible, Richie's head hung even lower. "Why don't you go watch television?" She offered, trying to rescue the situation. "I'll let you know when you can have lunch."

"Ok," he agreed submissively before stumbling off in the direction of the couch. Tessa decided that she needed to have a serious chat with Duncan because something had obviously changed with the boy since yesterday. She vexed herself trying to think of what it might be while she headed for a hot shower.

When she finally emerged, Tessa discovered Richie on the couch, rolled up in the afghan watching a rerun of some eighties sitcom she didn't recognize.

"What are you watching?" She asked, coming to stand behind the couch and gazing at the television over his shoulder.

"Nuthin'," Richie answered without taking his eyes off the screen.

"It sure looks like something to me," she said, leaning down and bracing her weight against the back of the couch.

Richie shifted slightly so that he was even farther away from her. "It's nuthin'," he insisted. Then he flipped the channel as though he had to prove the point. The next station was a talk show and Richie flipped passed it in disgust. The station after that was showing the weather forecast and Richie flipped again with an audible groan. Soon he had surfed through all the channels and wound up back on the sitcom.

"Not much on?" Tessa asked when he was done. She had stood up straight again by now, noticing how uncomfortable Richie seemed to be in her presence. Richie's answer was to turn off the television and cast the remote aside. "Have you decided what you want for lunch?" She asked, changing tactics.

"Something more than toast," Richie answered, smiling in spite of himself.

"I could put some soup on, if you think your stomach could handle it," Tessa suggested.

Richie turned around and looked up into her face for the first time. To Tessa he seemed like a puppy only slightly afraid to beg.

"I'd like to try it," he said hesitantly, "if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," said Tessa with a wide, victorious smile.

Richie smiled back at her and nodded his head. Tessa's expression suddenly shifted and Richie involuntarily tensed at the change. Fortunately her words weren't what he was expecting.

"It will take about fifteen minutes to cook, so I think I'll wait fifteen and then by the time it's done you'll have waited your eight hours."

"If you say so," said Richie with a shrug, relaxing again.

"Why don't you watch your sitcom and I'll call you when it's ready," she suggested.

Richie nodded and turned back around to face the TV. He shifted back into the afghan and reached for the remote, but his thoughts weren't on the program.

He was so certain he'd had Tessa pegged, and to a certain extent he was correct, but there was so much more to her than he'd originally given her credit for. She was genuine and kind, almost childlike in her ability to not let people bother her the way they often intend to do. She was the type of woman he'd feel guilty lying to, and Richie Ryan could lie convincingly to just about anyone. She was beautiful and sweet, honest, and genuinely caring. He could easily see himself with that kind of woman, loving that kind of woman.

It was never a real consideration, however. Just another shining example of how good some people have it and how good his own life will never be. He knew he would never find a woman like Tessa, much less be able to hang on to her for, what did MacLeod say? _Twelve_ years! He envied MacLeod his love life; that was for certain.

But MacLeod was a murderer! That automatically made him a far worse criminal than Richie ever was. Tessa was too smart to not know what her lover was up to. Therefore she had to know everything, and yet she still stayed with him. MacLeod, a murderer, had the ultimate trophy girlfriend who loved him enough to stay with him despite the extra curricular activities. Tessa had to be one special woman in order to stay in such a relationship; Richie could figure that part out easily enough. But what of MacLeod? It had to say something about his character that even though he was a murderer a woman like her could still love him.

Finally Richie's conscience settled on it: these were good people, extenuating circumstances aside. Richie knew that it wouldn't bother him so much that he was helping them by keeping his secret, and that was the part that he would have to reconcile with himself. These people had practically adopted him, given him break after break, and had been nothing but nice to him. Richie could work with that. Richie could build on that. He could work for MacLeod. For better or worse, this was the path his life was on. He would just have to find some way to deal with it.

He learned over lunch that Duncan was minding the store until Tessa relieves him. She said that he had errands to run but wouldn't say more about it. In a way Richie was rather grateful for this brief respite from the Highlander's presence. He knew that awkwardness would remain for quite a while, at least for him. Learning to trust a murderer is not an easy thing to do, especially for one who never made a habit of trust.

After lunch, Tessa sent Richie to the couch for more TV. She went downstairs to the store to cover for Duncan. To his dismay, but not surprise, Richie discovered that there was absolutely nothing to watch. He briefly debated fishing out another movie but then decided that he didn't really want to watch anything anyway. He went back to the kitchen for some water and wound up deciding to do the dishes. It was just the pot, bowls, and utensils left over from his shared lunch with Tessa, which wasn't so bad for a ready-made soup and seemed to be staying in his stomach well enough. Nonetheless, Richie decided to do his part and wash what was there. It took some rummaging but he eventually found where the bowls and utensils went in the various cupboards. He left the pot to dry on the drying rack.

This chore completed, Richie filled a glass with water and drank deeply, hoping that lots of water would make him less hungry. That being done, he went back to the couch and the television, but as luck would have it, there was still nothing on worth watching.

Richie was bored. There was no way around it. He couldn't watch TV and he wouldn't watch a movie without Tessa's supervision out of fear of the entertainment center alone. The dishes were done, and his employers kept a clean house so there were no other obvious chores for him to occupy himself with. With a heavy sigh he decided to head down to the antique store and offer his assistance to Tessa. Besides, he owed her for his standoffishness from earlier.

He found Tessa standing behind the counter reading a magazine. At first he was loath to interrupt her, but then his heavy footfalls gave him away. Tessa looked up from her article and smile at him, but her smile quickly faded.

"What are you doing down here, Richie?" She asked, but there was no rebuke in her tone. "Are you feeling alright?"

Richie blushed slightly at her concern. "I'm fine."

Her expression softened at his reassurance. "Then what can I do for you?" She asked, her smile returning.

Richie dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly very interested in his socks. "Actually, um…" he began, not sure quite how to word his question. "Well actually, Ms. Noel, I got kinda bored upstairs, and…" he stammered.

"Bored?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he answered. "There's nothing on TV, and I really don't feel like watching a movie."

"I see," said Tessa, not sure where this was going.

"And since I work here," Richie continued, gathering courage. "I was wondering if you had any work for me to do."

Tessa barely contained her laughter and for a moment Richie's face fell, misinterpreting the meaning.

"Oh, I'm sorry Richie," said Tessa, apologizing but not quite done with the laughter. "It's just that that's the last thing I would have expected you to ask."

"Oh," Richie answered, his face and voice perfectly neutral. His eyes couldn't quite hide the hurt, however.

"No, I don't think I'll ever understand American youth," said Tessa, shaking her head. Richie made no signs. Then: "Are you sure you feel up to working?"

"Yes, mam," Richie answered readily. "If you have anything for me to do."

Tessa paused for a moment in consideration. She was amused and encouraged by his offer to work and she saw no reason to deny him the right, but she also wanted him to be mindful of his still-healing injuries and not overexert himself.

"Well, there is that bag of coins…" Said Tessa, fully aware of the implications.

Richie groaned and laughed in spite of himself. "I guess I never did finish rolling them, did I," he said, shaking his head.

"I believe they're still right where you left them," said Tessa. "In the storeroom."

Richie nodded. "Right." He headed back through the workshop and had every intent of sitting down at the crates and resuming his chore from right where he left off.

Then he heard Tessa's voice calling after him. "Why don't you bring the bag back out here? I don't see why you have to sit back in that dusty storeroom and do it."

Richie smiled brightly at her words. He hurried to the storeroom and grabbed that bag of coins and rollers and practically jogged back into the antique store with them.

"Where should I sit?" Richie asked, reappearing in the doorway.

"Oh, I'm sure Duncan won't mind if you used the office," she answered.

Richie smiled, recognizing the gesture for what it was, and went into the office to roll some coins.

Richie finished with that chore around three and headed back into that store to inform Tessa. Then, being far from tired and not really in the mood to watch television, Richie begged to be allowed to do something else. Tessa decided to show him everything there was to know about the cash register and explained the policies for cash, check, and credit card purchases. She showed him how to ring up purchases and told him each and every store policy, from the procedure for appraisals to what to do when someone wanted to buy something astronomically expensive.

After that he still wasn't tired so reluctantly Tessa directed him to her workroom and the Windex and paper towels. The windows and display cases were rarely ever so clean.

When closing time finally came and Tessa locked up, Richie headed upstairs to take a much-needed shower. He figured that he put in a decent five hours of work and fully expected to be paid for it. Now that his life was conforming to something that he could call 'normal' he was anxious to get back to his 'normal' pursuits. He still had rent to pay, and laundry to do, and shopping, and then his jacket needed washing and repairing. And there was still Romeo to consider.

After his shower, Richie finally decided to watch some more TV. Much to his relief one of the networks was broadcasting _Raiders of the Lost Arc_. He was highly offended to discover that Tessa had never seen it and so convinced her to watch the rest of it with him. When it was over it was time for Richie to take his final pill for the night.

"I really hate these things," he said mournfully as Tessa handed him the two halves of his pill.

"I know, petit," she said sympathetically. Richie swallowed one after the other, making all the requisite faces.

"But on the plus side at least I get these stitches out tomorrow!" He said with a grin, absently running his finger over the length of them through his shirt. Then: "Do you know how that's going to work?"

"Duncan is taking you to the hospital around lunchtime tomorrow," Tessa answered.

Richie nodded. He knew he couldn't avoid MacLeod forever, and his trips to the hospital with the man were becoming some sort of perverted male-bonding ritual. Tessa then begged off to go work on her art so Richie sat back down on the couch to try to find something else to watch. He finally went to sleep just after ten.

Duncan didn't get home until midnight. He found Tessa waiting for him in the loft. She had brewed coffee and was already on her second cup.

"Duncan!" She called with relief and excitement as soon as she saw him standing in the doorway. She sprinted over to him and wrapped her arms about his neck. Slowly he returned the embrace. He was tired, but no worse for wear it seemed.

"Tess," he said on a pitiful exhale. She backed him up to arms length to regard his appearance.

"So what happened?" She asked once her spot inspection was over.

"We tracked the sun-of-a-bitch down and Lawrence killed him," Duncan answered, anger still resonating in his exhausted voice.

Tessa nodded, relieved. "I still don't see why he had to call you," she said, slightly reproachful, especially of Duncan for even going at all.

Duncan sighed. "Edward was Lawrence's student, but I've been friends with both of them for over two hundred years," he explained.

"But you told me that all fights have to be one on one."

"It was," Duncan assured. "This was Lawrence's fight, and Lawrence's victory."

"Then why did you have to go?"

Duncan sighed and hung his head. He doubted if Tessa would ever understand. She wasn't born in the right century.

"Don'che know, lass," he said with a grin, intentionally slipping into his brogue. "Scots ne'er let each other stand aloone."

Tessa just smiled and shook her head, renewing her embrace. Lawrence Stuart had called Duncan and arranged to meet him on holy ground. It turned out to be the grave of Edward Silver, a good friend and Lawrence's student. Lawrence was intent on headhunting and asked Duncan to serve as his second, which the Highlander agreed to without question. It turned out to be a desperate hunt and then an even more desperate fight for Lawrence, but in the end the Scot proved the victor. Edward had been avenged as the game permits. Duncan had driven his friend back to his hotel after the fight and then came straight home himself.

"I know that Lawrence is lucky to have you as a friend," she said at last, looking intently into her lover's face.

Duncan smiled, grateful that, understanding or not, she had accepted what he had deemed necessary. Exhausted though he was he still found the energy to kiss her passionately before heading off to shower.

* * *

Richie was awakened near six for his morning pill. Duncan crept into his room like before and placed the pills on the nightstand with the water. However, this time he was afraid to lay a hand on the teen to wake him up. He opted instead to turn on the light.

Richie flinched the instant Duncan flipped the switch. He swiveled around under the covers and drew his head farther down into their depths. However, Duncan could tell from the movement that he was now facing forward.

"Richie?" Duncan called out tentatively.

An aggravated groan was his only reply. Then suddenly the voice cut through the rest of the cobwebs. Richie's head shot out from under the covers to regard his employer, shielding his eyes with his hand so as to get a closer view.

"It's time for your pill," said Duncan, indicating the nightstand.

Richie's eyes followed Duncan's hand. "You're late," he said, too tired to affect amusement in his voice when he noticed the clock.

"Are you objecting?" Duncan asked, not too tired to be amused. This question took Richie by surprise so he decided not to answer it, opting instead to swallow the pills.

"Are we going to the hospital today?" Richie asked, trying to decide whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"I'm supposed to bring you in around lunchtime. I figured that if all goes well we could get lunch afterwards—if you think your stomach can stand it."

"Yeah, sure," Richie stammered, nodding. "Sounds good."

Duncan nodded. He knew that hoping that there would be no ill effects from the other day was futile, so instead he planned to try and talk to Richie about what happened.

"I'm going back to bed," he said at last, and then turned and left without another word.

Tried as he might, Richie couldn't fall back asleep. His mind kept skipping from one thought to another and his emotions could barely keep up. He was looking forward to getting his stitches out, but not looking forward to another trip to the hospital. He was looking forward to real food, as MacLeod had promised to take him to lunch. But of course all these things carried a price: enforced time with his employer. Hours, maybe, from which he couldn't escape. He knew that Duncan was still thinking about what happened. How could he not be, the guy could have died!

He was an antique dealer who kept swords around, that was understandable enough. He just happened to have one that he liked to keep sharp, and polished as he had said. To Richie, 'polished' meant making sure there were no traces of blood left. After all, it was a murder weapon.

Somewhere, deep down in places Richie didn't like talking about, he felt as though he knew MacLeod would take care of him. Both MacLeod and Tessa both. He had to admit that he didn't feel unsafe around MacLeod. The man has caught him off guard often enough. Richie couldn't believe what was happening to him. He wanted to trust these people. He was a part of their lives, and now he almost dared to feel like a part of their home. Sure it was the home of a murderer, but Richie hoped that sooner or later he would stop thinking of it like that. Or at the very least, for those thoughts to leave him alone long enough to allow him to work for the man.

Richie stayed in his room until Duncan knocked on the door around ten thirty. He informed the teen that he had an hour to get ready because he wanted to be at the hospital around noon. Deciding that for once he wanted to look presentable when entering the hospital, Richie headed for the shower.

Duncan was ready and waiting for Richie in the antique store with Tessa, who was covering the counter.

"Do you think he'll get his stitches out?" Tessa asked, sounding hopeful.

"Probably," was her lover's short reply. He seemed distracted by something.

"Then what?"

"Then we make sure he keeps taking the pills and that he doesn't re-injure himself."

Tessa nodded. "He'll continue to stay here then?"

Duncan sighed, misinterpreting her meaning. "I really do think it's for the best, Tess," he said, not relishing arguing about the arrangement now. "Just until he off the medication."

Tessa smiled. "Me too."

Not expecting this response, Duncan couldn't help but laugh. He then pulled Tessa into his arms. "Have I ever told you that you are the single most wonderful woman I have ever met?"

"You may have mentioned something like that before," was Tessa's coy reply.

Duncan shook his head, rubbing their noses together. Then he kissed her playfully.

"Well then I'm telling you again," he said, and she laughed with delight. "You are the single most wonderful woman I have ever known."

"Duncan MacLeod," she said, entwining her fingers in his ponytail. "Flattery will get you everywhere." They kissed again and stayed that way until Duncan felt the twinge of a pre-immortal presence. They hastily broke apart when Richie appeared on the landing by the doorway.

"You ready?" Duncan called up to him as though nothing had just happened.

"To get these out?" Richie asked. "You bet!"

Duncan laughed and sloppily motioned for Richie to come down and follow him. He grabbed his duster from the office, sword hidden neatly in its inner pocket, and headed for the door with Richie following closely behind. It was a warm day so neither wore a jacket (not that Richie had one to wear). Duncan tossed his duster into the backseat and the two of them headed off to the hospital.

By the end of the day, Richie couldn't decide which was worse: getting the stitches out or the lunch he'd shared with MacLeod.

It had started seemingly innocent enough. Small talk reigned on the drive to the hospital, mostly focusing on the lovely change of weather and how they were able to be outside without jackets. Richie of course noticed that MacLeod had brought his jacket anyway and without even thinking had asked his employer why he did so. MacLeod said that it was for just incase the weather changes, and Richie might have bought it if the man didn't then change the subject to sports. Richie was no fool and had lots of practice telling when people were either lying or hiding things from him. He suspected that there was another reason for the coat… the long coat that easily hung down to his employer's knees… the coat that could easily conceal a sword.

The conversation turned monosyllabic for Richie after that until Duncan got the hint and the rest of the drive to the hospital took place in awkward silence. However, it didn't improve once they were inside, either. Richie watched the television in the waiting room with intent, even though it was CNN. The news cycled four times before he was admitted, but he wouldn't take his eyes away for fear of having to converse with his employer.

Duncan sensed this, and it worried him.

After being admitted, Richie had to sit, shirt off, in a cold and cramped examination room. As much as he wanted to tell the Highlander to wait outside, he knew that the man would be better able to answer the doctor's questions when he arrived since, while Richie had indeed been present for the extent of his injuries and hospital visits, MacLeod was the only one of them to remain conscious throughout. And so Richie endured an equally awkward wait in the exam room, reading a months-old edition of Time Magazine. Duncan picked up some nature magazine and the two read to cover the awkwardness.

Finally the doctor arrived, and sure enough the interrogation began. Richie was correct in assuming that MacLeod would be asked the questions, and he put up with the doctor's cold and calloused fingers prodding him while he and Duncan spoke like the teen wasn't even in the room. This aggravated Richie to no end, but he was used to it, and seeing that he was minutes away from having those annoying stitches remove, he grit his teeth and put up with it.

Eventually the talking was over, and the doctor reached over to an instrument tray and removed an item that Richie thought would have better suited an oral hygienist. The doctor explained to Richie how it was going to work and that it might 'sting just a bit' while the thread was being removed. Richie nodded, knowing that he had no choice. He gripped the front ledge of the exam bench he was sitting on fiercely enough to make his knuckles go white. The doctor gave a warning and Richie shut his eyes tight and grit his teeth together.

Richie was surprised at how painful the experience was. It was all he could do to keep from crying out, but it was over as soon as it began. Richie relaxed his grip and took deep calming breaths.

Then the doctor said the impossible.

"Half way there."

Richie groaned before he could stop himself and MacLeod stepped towards him in the hopes of offering some sort of comfort. Richie tactfully ignored him as he renewed his grip and once again hunkered down to prepare for the pain.

However, the doctor lied. They were less than halfway there and round two was infinitely longer than the last. He could stop the hissing half-whines that escaped his lips, but eventually it was over. While he sat catching his breath and the doctor was babbling on about how to take care of the wound now that the stitches were out, Richie chanced a glance at his employer. MacLeod's expression was unreadable, but Richie clearly say the sympathy—almost pity, in his eyes.

Richie did NOT want the pity of a murderer.

He renewed his brave face while the doctor slathered a foul smelling, stinging ointment over his wound and then applied the bandage. That being done he gave a list of instructions to Duncan about how to continue to care for his _son's_ injury. Richie's head snapped around at that. He noticed Duncan's grimace, but he didn't correct the doctor.

Richie was cranky for having been put through such an ordeal, but he was also happy to finally have the stitches out. While walking back to the car he engaged in a few twisting stretches to test his newfound range of motion. Duncan reproached him, telling him that his wound was still healing and that he shouldn't do anything to aggravate it. Not accustomed to mothering and basically hating it on principle, Richie chose to glower at the man.

All awkwardness aside, Duncan was true to his word and took Richie out for lunch. He even allowed Richie to convince him to take him to his favorite burger joint in his old neighborhood. In hindsight, of course, Richie saw the ultimate stupidity of the choice.

Things seemed to be looking up from their earlier awkwardness. Richie had ironed out a work schedule for the duration of his stay at the loft and Duncan had reassured him that his strong work ethic was much appreciated. Duncan was placating him with embarrassing (but tame) stories of Tessa when they entered the restaurant.

Duncan immediately didn't like what he saw. The place was clean and respectable enough, but the clientele were another matter. Two different groups of teenagers were seated at opposite ends of the dining area, talking loudly and with a fair share of objectionable phrases, and trading lewd and dirty stares at each other. They didn't need to be wearing colors for Duncan to sense that they were rival gangs.

Worse, kids from both groups waved cheerfully at Richie when they noticed him. Richie felt uncomfortable at this, but he had already assured MacLeod that he never ran with a gang and was now hoping that the man believed him.

They ordered their meals and sat down, Duncan choosing a booth on the other side of the dining room from the gangs and also right by the emergency exit. Richie wasn't oblivious to this choice, nor to the looks that Duncan kept giving the gangs, or to how his eyes would dart instantly to the source of the slightest sound.

This time it was Richie who attempted the conversation, but it was Duncan who was giving the monosyllabic answers this time. Richie knew that the man was on his guard simply from the tension that irradiated from his entire body. His eyes were cold and piercing and his right hand seemed to unconsciously clench itself into fists. To Richie, his employer seemed like a caged animal in this environment and the tension made him very uneasy.

Nothing happened of course, but Richie was just as glad to get out of the situation as Duncan was. His employer's mood seemed to improve as they drove away, so Richie foolishly made the mistake of explaining to his employer the nature of the restaurant. The gangs use it as refuge because they like the food and can get it for cheap, not to mention that they can always get employment there whenever they needed 'community service' to satisfy probation. Nothing ever happens in their demilitarized zone of sorts.

MacLeod didn't react to the news that the restaurant was a gang sanctuary well at all and the awkwardness returned full force. Duncan wanted to lecture the teen until he was blue in the face about associating himself anywhere _near_ where gangs hang out, but decided against it.

When they finally returned to the loft, Richie lied and said that he was tired and headed for the sanctuary of his temporary bedroom. Tessa watched the teen retreat with interest.

"So how did it go?" She asked Duncan, who collapsed himself down on the couch with a heavy sigh. Tessa sat next to him and he pulled her into his lap.

"Well the stitches are out," Duncan explained. "He still needs to keep it clean, dry, and bandaged for a while, and to finish off the pills they gave him. They gave me a prescription for a cream to help minimize scarring, too."

"Well that's good news," said Tessa. and Duncan nodded. "So what's troubling you?"

Duncan sighed. He really couldn't keep anything from her, try as he might. Not seeing the point in lying to her, Duncan told Tessa about the restaurant, and about what Richie told him regarding its clientele.

"I didn't think Richie was part of a gang," she said when he was finished, both shocked and worried.

"He swore to me up and down that he isn't," said Duncan. His tone told Tessa that he believed the teen's claim, so she just nodded.

"But if he's not, then why would he want to go there?"

"Well, he was right about the food," Duncan defended weakly. He knew that, most likely, Richie wasn't aware of how dangerous the situation was. Or rather, he was very aware of it but so used to it that he wouldn't even bat an eyelash. That doesn't mean that he should go deliberately seeking trouble, however.

Meanwhile, back in his room, Richie lay flat on his back staring blankly at the ceiling. He had such high hopes for today, but sadly it turned out just as he had feared. He and MacLeod were still awkward with each other. On top of that, Richie had good reason to believe that his employer was disappointed in him for what happened with lunch. This puzzled him because normally he would scoff when authority figures were disappointed in him. It had become almost a game with him: seeing how long it would take for him to let a person down based solely on _their_ expectations of him and not on anything relevant to his behavior or choices. So why did he feel this way about disappointing MacLeod? Was it regret? Shame? Fear?

Richie allowed himself to stay in his room for an hour or so, just long enough for MacLeod to cool off, if indeed he had upset the man. However, when he exited his room, he found the loft to be curiously empty. He didn't call out, but rather searched each room, finding no traces of his employers.

Unsure of what he would find, Richie descended the stairs into the antique store, but alas that too was empty. Apparently it was closed, which surprised the teen. Unsure of what to do next, Richie was startled by a strange sound coming from Tessa's workshop. Richie hesitantly sought out the source of the sound and relaxed when he saw Tessa attacking a piece of metal with a powerful looking sander. He stood watching her for a moment, certain she was unaware of his presence due to the noise and the limited peripheral vision that facemask was probably affording her.

Not long after he arrived, Tessa ceased her assault on the block of metal and raised her visor. It was then that she noticed Richie standing there.

"Can I help you, Richie?" She asked, not pausing in what she was doing. Richie fidgeted for a moment, trying to come up with a viable excuse for bothering her.

"Why is the store closed?" He asked finally.

"I need to work on my art and Duncan has errands to run."

Richie nodded. Eventually it appeared like Tessa was done for the moment, because she finally stood up, stilled her movements, and focused her undivided attentions on the teen.

"Is there something you want?" She asked, more curious than cold. "Are you feeling alright?"

Once again Richie fidgeted. "Uh…I was going to ask if you had any more work for me to do, but the store's closed…"

Tessa smiled. "I'm sorry, Richie," she said. "You'll just have to be lazy today."

Richie fumbled and fidgeted again. He didn't want to watch TV, or a movie, or take a nap. He was tired of lounging around and needed to do something to keep himself occupied or else he'd go stir crazy. Then suddenly a thought struck him.

"Do you have any needles and thread?"

Tessa's brow furrowed in confusion. "What would you want with a needle and thread?" She asked.

"There's a tear in my jacket I wanna sew up."

"I could take care of that tonight with my sewing machine," Tessa offered.

Richie shook his head. "No-no," he said a little too quickly. He didn't want Tessa to see the blood on his jacket. "Um, I mean, it'll give me something to do," he finished.

Tessa once again smiled at him, shaking her head.

"All right, Richie," she acquiesced. "Give me a minute and then I'll go find some for you."

Richie grinned a thank you and ran back up the stairs. He was waiting patiently in the kitchen when Tessa came up from the antique store. He waited patiently while she washed her hands and even more patiently as she went into the walk in linen closet to find what they were looking for.

"What color thread?" He heard her ask.

"Do you have black?" He heard more sounds of rummaging and then Tessa reappeared from the closet.

"Do you know how to thread the needle?" She asked. She had a spool of black thread in her hand with a needle sticking through it, and a pair of small sewing scissors.

"Of course," Richie lied.

She handed the items over with a smile. "I'll be in my workshop if you need any help."

"Thanks Tess," he answered with a grin before turning to head for his room. Once there he shut the door and grabbed his coat from the closet. He threw the item on the bed and plopped himself down. The blood had long since dried and gone crusty. The stain would probably never come out of the inner lining. With a slight groan in mourning of his favorite garment, Richie took the thread, needle, and scissors and began to teach himself how to sew.

Sadly the chore took him longer than he thought. After nearly an hour of fighting with the needle and thread he finally figured out the correct way of threading. That task accomplished, he set off to teach himself how to do the actual sewing. Not wanting to look at the bloodstains, Richie began sewing up the outer canvas of his jacket. He made the stitches very small, modeling after the seams he saw elsewhere. However, he realized with chagrin that his thread was too short. This was also when he realized that one needs to leave room at the end to tie off the thread. With another audible groan Richie backtracked his stitching and tied off the first batch. As he unraveled more thread from the spool, the imagery of him sewing up the slice in his jacket in the same spot where he needed the slice in his very flesh patched up was not lost on him. That plus the sight of the blood made him shiver.

Another hour and a half spent itself slowly as Richie stitched up the gash in the outer canvas of his jacket. That task being done Richie held up his handiwork to the light. Indeed, he was proud of himself. His jacket was now weatherproof. Of course, he was only half finished. He still needed to stitch up the inside part. Groaning again, almost out of habit, Richie once again reached for the needle and thread.

He had become quite adept at threading the needle and was back at work quickly. However, he discovered that his efforts to see clearly and stitch up the slice evenly were hampered by the dried blood that was thickly caked around the gash. The process was slow going.

Meticulously, working by rote, Richie had stitched up more than half of the slice in the inner lining when he heard a knock at his door. This knock startled him and he practically jumped. His next move was to check the clock. Much to his surprise he discovered that it was dinnertime. That thought was immediately followed by the realization that he no longer had to take pills at night and could therefore join his employers for dinner. This thought made his stomach rumble in anticipation. However, he was distracted from this tumble of thoughts when the knocking returned, even louder this time. Richie shook himself from his apparent daze.

"Who is it?" He asked, making ready to stash his jacket.

"Duncan."

Richie sighed. It wasn't Tessa. If it had been he would have immediately closed the jacket so she couldn't see the bloodstains in the part he was currently sewing. Duncan, however…

"Come in," he found himself calling. He didn't bother to stop what he was doing. Instead he didn't even look up as the highlander entered.

"Feel up to eating some dinner?" He asked.

Richie made a few more stitches before pausing and looking up. "Sure," he said, his tone unreadable, before returning his attentions to his jacket.

"May I?" Duncan asked, indicating that he wanted to inspect Richie's handiwork. Richie paused briefly before wordlessly handing the jacket up to his employer. "Not bad," Duncan appraised, inspecting the stitching closely. "Though you may want to wash the blood out of it."

"You can't wash it while it's torn," said Richie. "The machine will only rip it more."

Duncan laughed. "I didn't say to put it in the washing machine."

"You mean, wash it by hand?" Richie asked in disbelief.

"It would have gotten some of the blood out at least," Duncan answered, handing the jacket back to Richie. "Made it easier to sew."

Richie nodded. "Oh well. I'm almost done now." Richie went back to sewing, but MacLeod just stood there, not exactly watching him, but not leaving either. They stayed in silence for the ten minutes it took Richie to finish. "There!" He said as he finished tying off the last end of the thread.

Duncan looked down on the jacket and smiled approvingly. "We'll throw it in the wash after dinner," he said, taking the jacket from Richie without protest and hanging it in the closet. Now it was time to head to dinner, but strangely neither of them moved. Duncan stood, Richie sat, and both stared intently at each other.

"Do you think we could…" Richie asked tentatively, "_not_ let Tessa see?"

It took a moment for Richie's words to sink in.

"We can wash it ourselves if you like," Duncan offered.

Richie nodded gratefully, but the uncomforting feeling remained.

"It was a big stain," he Richie at last. "Lots of blood."

Duncan nodded. "The wound was serious," he said gravely. "You could have died."

"I know."

Richie turned to stare at his employer with wide, innocent eyes. In this moment Duncan sensed that he should say something, but he was at a loss as to what. It didn't matter though because Richie beat him to it.

"Did I ever thank you? For saving my life I mean."

The question took Duncan by surprise. "I'm sure you did," he lied. Honestly he couldn't remember. "But you don't need to thank me."

"Well I am anyway," said Richie. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Duncan answered, a warm smile crossing his lips. Again it felt like they should move, but again neither made any efforts to. Duncan sensed that there was a lot more going on than Richie's need to apologize.

"What was his name?" Richie asked at length, but his voice was emotionless. The teen had made his decisions, but he needed to vocalize them or else none of it would seem real to him.

"What was whose name?" Duncan asked, confused.

"The masked man, on the bridge," Richie clarified. "What was his name?"

Duncan silenced his gasp, startled at Richie's question and not knowing where it was heading or why it was asked.

"Slan," he said cautiously, pretty sure he'd said something before, in the hospital. "His name was Slan."

Richie nodded as though he had just remembered. "And the others?" His voice was emotionless and his eyes held something that Duncan couldn't quite place. However that might have had something to do with how thrown he was by the question.

Duncan was almost fearful of what Richie was insinuating."Others?"

"The others," Richie repeated. "What were their names?"

"What others?" Duncan asked, although he was fairly certain by now what Richie was referring to. "I don't know what you mean."

Richie sighed, trying to come up with the best way to say what he was thinking.

"One of my foster fathers was a vet," he began. "Vietnam. Every so often he'd get… weird… about the littlest things. Like the way my sneakers would squeak on the kitchen floor. Whenever he got like that… he would go outside and chop wood." Richie paused to see if Duncan was following the story. "I was eight at the time. I wanted to help him, but he told me I was too little. So I would watch him… for hours… splitting wood with a fireman's axe."

When Richie looked to Duncan again, the man appeared as stoic as ever. However, the highlander was very tense, almost afraid to find out where this was going.

"Each time he dropped the axe… the stroke was the same. When I asked him he said it came with lots of practice… That night on the bridge," Richie paused, also afraid to bring his anecdote to its rightful conclusion. "You used the same stroke to cut off Slan's head."

Duncan hissed out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. "Richie…" He began, not knowing quite what to say.

"Practice," said Richie, acting as though he hadn't heard Duncan try to interject. "Lot's of practice."

Once again he turned wide, innocent, and unreadable eyes up at the Highlander. There was a tension filled pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity before Richie spoke again.

"Did the others have names too?" He asked at last. "Or were they just pieces of wood?"

Duncan closed his eyes and looked away, unable to withstand Richie's gaze any longer. The double meaning of his last question seemed to cut straight into his very soul. Indeed, Duncan had taken many heads, and he'd be damned if he could remember every name.

His reaction didn't matter much to Richie, though. It was exactly what he was expecting. It told him all the truth he needed to hear.

"But that Slan guy—"

Duncan flinched when Richie spoke again. He didn't think he had the strength to endure much more of this. He longed to tell the teen about his immortality. At least then he wouldn't be thought of as a murderer.

"My deal with you made me an accomplice in his—"

_Don't say it, please don't say it_—

"Death."

_Thank you!_

"I could go to jail for a lot worse than petty theft."

Somewhere, somehow, Duncan found his voice again. "Richie…"

"But I don't care." Only to have Richie cut him off.

Duncan summoned the strength to look at Richie once again. He found the teen standing, not three feet away from him. He hadn't even heard him move.

"You saved my life, gave me a break when you didn't need to. I owe you." Richie's expression was still unreadable, but his eyes were soft, almost pleading, yet filled with a grim determination. Duncan knew that this was very hard for him to say.

"What are you saying?" He asked, once again afraid of the answer but needing to know.

Richie responded by holding out his hand. "I'll keep your secrets," he said. "For you."

Duncan finally saw the end of this conversation, and what it really meant. It was determination he was reading from Richie, and gratitude… and acceptance. He took Richie's hand and shook it firmly, knowing that Richie would keep his word on it out of gratitude and duty. Duncan sensed that Richie knew that Slan wasn't the first and nor would be the last, but that the teen didn't care. He made his choice, and that was to stick by his employer.

It began with this handshake. Richie accepted Duncan MacLeod, the man, the murderer, the savior of the undeserving. It began with a choice to follow a sense of duty learned through the code of the streets and born of gratitude greater than the events he didn't fully understand could shake with his conscience. This was the cornerstone. From gratitude and acceptance and duty, trust and loyalty could arise, and from there, the strongest conceivable bonds of friendship could be forged.

Their hands separated, and a wordless exchange was given, followed by tension-releasing smiles and light laughter. Then Richie followed MacLeod out into the dining area where Tessa was waiting with dinner.


	11. Murphy's Law

The rest of the two weeks went by surprisingly quickly. Richie healed remarkably well, and by the time he moved back into his own apartment the scar had faded into a thin reddish line. With the new prescription (that Richie insisted on working towards), the scarring was expected to be minimal. Hopefully nothing but a pale line of slightly raised scar tissue would be all that remained. Richie claimed to not mind having such a scar, believing that the 'chicks' would find it sexy.

Richie was also not exactly idle, once he was up and moving around like a normal human being. The lack of decent television, while giving him the chance to bond with Tessa over her favorite movies, also served to motivate him to do more than just laze around. He worked in the store when it was open for as long as MacLeod would permit. Despite his progress, the Highlander constantly had to remind Richie that his body was still healing.

Even still, Richie was more often than not found in the store attending to some chore or other. When the store was closed, or when there really wasn't anything for him to do there, he would beg for the chance to do something else. He helped with laundry, dusted the loft, did the dishes, ran errands with MacLeod, and gave an extra pair of hands to Tessa when she was working on her sculpture.

Of course he specified that he was only helping out to help work off his debts to them. The window and alarm system were expensive enough as it was, two prescriptions and two hospital stays on top of that was outrageous. Duncan had talked him into not worrying too much about the medical expenses; after all, as an employee, he was entitled to some medical coverage by the antique store.

When Richie moved back into his own apartment, he and Duncan decided that all debts he owed were paid off by the extensive amount of work he put in around the loft and in the store. Then he handed Richie his first official paycheck (having taken the time to create an account for him). Richie protested mildly for the sake of appearances before Duncan reminded him that he had worked for nearly a week _prior _to moving in with them.

The highlander embellished this check slightly, of course, and Richie's first order of business after Duncan dropped him off in front of his apartment was to walk down the street to the supermarket and cash his 250-dollar check. The sight of that much money in his hands nearly made him dizzy. However, the temporary euphoria only lasted for as long as it took him to remember his responsibilities. Two hundred of that was going in an envelope for his landlord: the first part of the month's rent. That left him fifty for expenses for the week, and Richie imagined that he would need just about all of it.

Thirty he took grocery shopping. Buying economy size and store brand products, he figured that he had enough food for two weeks of two meals a day (since Tessa had assured him that she would provide his lunches). Out of the twenty that remained, Richie did all his laundry and bought some replacement light bulbs for his apartment, along with the tools to fix the light fixture in his stairwell since such things were deemed his responsibility in the terms of his lease. The money left over he stashed in a coffee tin in his kitchen cabinet. This was the 'make peace with Romeo' fund.

Richie returned to the routine of working six days a week. He would take the bus in the morning, but would accept rides home from MacLeod if he was available to offer them. The times that the Highlander was otherwise occupied Richie decided to stick to public transportation rather than have Tessa drive him. It wasn't that he was ashamed of where he lived. Well, not of his apartment anyway. That he was quite proud of. His _neighborhood_ on the other hand… Somehow he just didn't feel comfortable having Tessa drive him there in her white Mercedes convertible.

However, even though he was working, not all of Richie's time was actually spent in the antique store. He was still helping Tessa with her sculpture (since she forbade MacLeod from lying eyes on it) and running errands for or with Duncan. When Tessa remarked that she had no time to do laundry Richie offered to take care of it for her provided that she would let him run a few loads of his own free of charge. Tessa agreed and now Richie didn't have to worry about paying for laundry. He found himself heading to the loft on Sundays (the day the antique store was closed) and doing their laundry as well as his own. Duncan or Tessa (whoever was around at the time) would feed him for his troubles.

Pretty soon Richie got his expenses in order. He was able to rescind his deal with the landlord and pay the three hundred up front the next month. Rent only cost one and a fifth of his four monthly checks. In this fashion two months flew by and Richie was able to use his extra spending money to buy necessities for his apartment, such as dishes, cookware, towels, and cleaning supplies. He even found the money for things like a walkman and a thirteen inch television, though sadly cable still eluded him.

One of the biggest perks thus far, however, was that Duncan eventually took him to get his driver's license. Due to his long and colorful juvenile record, Richie wasn't allowed to get his driver's license until he turned eighteen. Of course, that didn't stop Richie from learning how to drive. Actually, Duncan deemed he was quite good at it when Richie broached the subject to the Highlander, who let him demonstrate on a few country back roads north of the city… in the thunderbird! So they made an appointment at the RMV and Richie, driving the T-bird with MacLeod as his sponsor, earned his driver's license at last.

Of course, what good is a license without something to drive? Richie then began taking motorcycle lessons from his friend Larry. As soon as he had paid off what he owed Romeo, Richie was planning on saving up for a bike and taking the motorcycle test. Duncan was supportive, but oddly enough Tessa was against the idea, believing that it was too dangerous. However, Richie was fascinated with bikes and wouldn't be dissuaded.

Richie also found himself being invited to stay for dinner on more and more occasions. Pretty soon it was to the tune of three and four nights a week. Every once and a while he even offered to cook. He could grill some mean cheeseburgers after all.

And so it was that these weeks passed incredibly quickly for all involved. Richie had managed to scrape and save nearly seven hundred dollars from his paychecks with which he aimed to appease Romeo. He just needed two more weeks and the last burden he was carrying would be released from his shoulders. Two more weeks and he would be beholden to no one, with two legs underneath him and a plan on how to get by in the world. This was the most hopeful outlook on life Richie had ever had thus far. Two more weeks and he was free!

Fate, it seems, is a cruel, cruel, being.

* * *

A young kid in ripped and faded jeans and a Chicago Bulls jacket with matching baseball cap—turned backwards—was stomping his feet absently at the pavement beneath his feet. Another drag of his cigarette did nothing to make him feel better. He hated this neighborhood: the heights, the rich people's neighborhood. Home of the people whose tax dollars paid for his mother's crack before a cent went to cover his little brother's lunch money. These people were always complaining about the people in _his_ neighborhood, living like leaches off their good graces and doing nothing but fester away in lives of sex, gangs, drugs, and all the other things that the white middle to upper class should fear in the eyes of the poorer minorities.

Julio hated this neighborhood. He hated the rich, with their shiny new cars and designer clothes. He hated how being Latino made him stand out like a sore thumb, and how it was only a matter of time before the cops circled back again. They only cared about the rich whose taxes paid their salaries. His father's murderer still hadn't been caught, and Julio knew it was because the shooting took place on the wrong portion of the city map.

He scraped and stamped his feet and flicked his cigarette butt away, muttering Hispanic curses absently at the types of people who lived in this neighborhood, and peppering those with some Portuguese ones Romeo had taught him, and one or two Polish ones that Ed taught him. When he fumbled for more cigarettes he discovered that his pack was now empty. An English curse escaped his lips as he threw the empty carton on the ground.

Julio hated this neighborhood. All it was good for were expensive car stereos and maybe the occasional smash and grab job. He hated that he had to reach into his pocket to find his orange bandanna because wearing it would attract _even_ _more_ unwanted attention. He felt naked without it, unprotected. Wearing it meant that he had Romeo's protection. Walking down the streets of his neighborhood with his gang, he felt no fear. That orange bandanna made him ten feet tall and bulletproof. Here… here it was the opposite. Here he was in distinct danger of catching a bullet from a cop suspecting him of loitering, or something worse, only to have dope planted on him and his death explained away as resisting arrest for intent to sell.

Julio hated this neighborhood. It was dangerous for him to be here. But still, he had to do what he was told. Romeo wanted him to stake out the places that Richie was hiding, and the antique store across the street and down a little ways that Julio was watching out of the corner of his eye appeared to be the place. His hatred of this neighborhood wasn't strong enough for him to say no to Romeo in this task. Besides, he and his brother needed the money.

Then suddenly Julio was rewarded for the patience of his efforts. He saw a man with a ponytail bring a sweet black T-bird around to the front of the store. The car stopped and then Richie came out. He jumped over the door into the passenger side and the T-bird drove away. Julio smiled as the car passed him. He'd seen Richie, but Richie hadn't seen him, and he'd finally found where Richie had been hiding these past weeks. That man with the ponytail was the same one he'd seen at the burger joint. Romeo would be quite pleased with this knowledge. Quite pleased indeed.

* * *

The house was warm tonight, lit by the blessed glow of space heaters and incense. Romeo liked to leave the incense burning. It covered the other smells in the room. Julio was met with the sicky-sweet aroma of marijuana when he entered one of the bedrooms through the open door. Ricardo smiled up at him through half-glazed eyes. He was reclining against the wall, half sprawled on the mattress that lay on the floor. Some blonde was passed out at the foot of the mattress, half on it and half on the floor. Julio grimaced when he saw the needle still in her arm and felt slightly embarrassed that he didn't remember her name.

"You here for the party?" Ricardo asked, his speech very slurred. "You're late if you are."

Julio smiled and shook his head. "I'm lookin' for Romeo," he answered. "You seen him?"

Ricardo answered by reaching over to the ash tray and grabbing a half-smoked joint which he then handed up to Julio.

"Naw, I ain't seen 'im," Ricardo drawled as Julio took the joint from his hands. He then fumbled in his pockets until hi found his matches.

"You know where he is?" Julio asked once he'd lit up. "I gots some info for him, and I wanna get paid."

Ricardo shook his head lazily. "Peace, man," said Ricardo, holding up his hands weakly. Then he kicked the unconscious girl in front of him. She moaned and half rolled over, coming slowly back into consciousness. Julio saw her half sit up and with another moan, remove the needle from her arm.

"First get laid, _then_ get paid."

"You'd let me stick your woman, man?" Julio asked incredulously after he exhaled a long stream of smoke.

"Hells no," said Ricardo with a stoned smile. "But she ain't mine." Then he stood, with monumental effort, and shook his head at Julio as he left. He shut the door behind him as Julio began undoing his fly.

* * *

Later that night, six boys sat on the floor around a broken coffee table, splitting a six pack. The table was round, but if it were to have a head, Romeo would be seated at it. On his right sat Edward, the only Caucasian present and Romeo's right hand. Then going around the circle was Julio, followed by Ricardo, and then Snake, the disgustingly tattooed enforcer who everybody except Romeo seemed to slightly fear. On Romeo's left, last around the circle, sat his younger brother Teo. Julio had told Romeo what he'd learned, and now it was decision-making time.

"So what we do about him?" Asked Teo, all too eager to earn his brother's approval.

"Waste him?" Ricardo asked, but only in the sense of asking a question. It held no emotional attachment for him in any way.

"I wouldn't feel right about wasting him," Edward informed them.

"Have soft spot for those of your color?" Romeo asked, but there was no real malice in it. More of a mocking joke.

"I don't really want to waste him, either," said Julio. "He ain't never been an enemy."

"He ain't never been no friend, neither," Snake reminded them, his deep voice scratchy.

"And he stole from us," Teo added. At fifteen, he was at least two years younger than the rest of them, and still rather naïve about the goings on of this gang.

"How you figure?" Edward snapped. He was rather opposed to including Romeo's younger brother. Especially not at fifteen. "He paid back what he took."

"But he didn't pay the interest," Romeo added. His eyes were dark and his expression unreadable.

"He's working in that antique store," Julio reminded them. "He's prolly got the money for it now."

"With added interest," said Ricardo.

Romeo smiled devilishly.

"So we take what he owes us," Snake pronounced, his tone mimicking Romeo's smile.

"Then what?" Asked Teo.

Snake had to physically restrain himself from slapping the kid.

"You remember watching them old mob movies late at night?" Romeo asked, his tone immediately shifting into one of brotherly banter.

Teo's brow furrowed in thought. Already the small amount of beer he'd had was clouding his memory. Romeo and the others just laughed with varying degrees of cruelty.

"Break his legs," Ricardo blurted with satisfaction.

Romeo nodded. "We take back what's ours, and make sure he knows he can't get away with what he done to us," he said with an air of finality, and the others nodded.

"Who?" Edward asked, sounding tough but fearing to be named.

"Please let me do it, Romeo," Teo practically begged. His plea was answered with a quick cuff to the ear from his impatient older brother.

"Quit your whining or you'll stay here," said Romeo in an almost paternal tone.

"What about how, when, and where?" Julio asked. He desperately wanted to avoid breaking any laws in _that_ neighborhood.

"If he's got money he sure as hell won't have it on him," said Edward. The others nodded.

"He'd prolly keep it at home," said Ricardo. Nods and mumbles of assent all around.

"Then where is home?" Romeo asked. Snake grinned devilishly once again.

* * *

Richie bounded up the stairs of his apartment without a care in the world. He had just completed yet another full day at work. He was tired, but content. He wanted to quickly fix something for dinner and sit down and watch the rest of the Seahawks game.

He was unaware of the six sets of eyes that followed him as he entered his apartment.

Richie had a can of tomato soup in a small saucepan on the stove, but the burner wasn't lit. In fact, the burner was refusing to light. With a groan, Richie realized that the pilot light must have gone out, _again_. MacLeod promised to take a look at it on Sunday, but this was only Thursday, and Richie was hungry. Another groan and a few curses later, Richie was on his knees in front of the stove, making ready to investigate the pilot light.

Suddenly he heard what sounded like lots of hurried footfalls on the stairs. He turned around just in time to see the door burst open, and his eyes flew wide in surprise as a form he only belatedly recognized as Snake raised a baseball bat above his head. There was a woosh of air and then all was darkness.

* * *

Duncan was cleaning out the office when suddenly he unearthed an envelope. It had arrived last week but the Highlander had shuffled it aside and then it became buried under magazines and junk mail and other less important things. He had meant to give it to Richie, but then he realized the implications of doing so, and then decided to sit down with his 'employee' and talk about what they were going to do. And now, alas, Duncan plainly saw that he had forgotten to do so, and groaned.

"Something the matter?"

Duncan looked up to see Tessa standing in the doorway. She was dressed in scrub clothes, having stopped by the office on her way to her workshop.

"I forgot to give Richie his W2 form," said Duncan, holding up the official IRS envelope for all to see.

Tessa nodded. "Americans and their taxes," she said dismissively.

Duncan grinned evilly. "Do I have to remind you about the history of _your_ country and its taxes?"

"No," Tessa said, returning his tone. Then her expression changed as she was struck by a sudden thought. "Why don't you run it over to him?" She asked.

"Now?" He asked in return.

"Why not? You can introduce him to the joys of income tax preparation and then take him out to dinner. I'll be in my workshop all night so you were on your own to eat anyway."

Duncan arched an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

Tessa smiled innocently. "That's what I stopped by to tell you," she said matter-of-factly. "Now you have a better option."

Duncan nodded, smiling slightly. "What could it hurt?"

* * *

Richie awoke. Or at least, he thought he was awake. Since the blissful nothingness from whence he came was just replaced by a searing, painful, slightly nauseating nothingness he could only assume that he was awake.

_Then why is everything so dark?_ _Oh_._ Perhaps if I opened my eyes…_

Richie opened his eyes slightly and was suddenly met by blinding light. It was too bright and only made his head scream in protest so he shut his eyes again. While pondering this disastrous revelation he suddenly realized that he could still hear things. Although he couldn't make out what was said, he definitely heard several voices talking. With a frown he realized that he couldn't remember where he'd heard those voices before, but they were distinctly familiar somehow. The frown deepened when he discovered that he was too disoriented to even discern _where_ those voices were coming from.

These depressing thoughts were suddenly silenced as feeling returned to the rest of his body. Indeed, his head felt like elephants were dancing on his brain and his stomach was trying to muster the courage to empty its contents, but Richie became aware that his legs felt rather uncomfortable and that, for some reason, he couldn't feel his arms. Well, no, that wasn't quite right. He _could_ feel them. The sensations he was getting from them, however…

Not knowing what was wrong with him, Richie realized ruefully that he would need to be able to see if he was going to get any answers. That meant opening his eyes, so he grit his teeth and opened them eyes again. Once again the pain returned, but Richie did not relent and soon the intensity of the pain faded. With the fading of the pain came the fading of the light, and soon his vision began returning. It was blurry at first, but soon Richie recognized his apartment. Or rather, he realized that he was sitting on his kitchen floor. As his vision continued to correct itself, Richie tried to remember what had happened that would have caused him to now be sitting on his kitchen floor. He remembered trying to cook some soup…

The cramps in his legs would not be silenced, however. Richie let out an involuntary groan as he straightened his legs out.

"Looks like he's awake."

A voice cut clearly through Richie's void of pain. He knew that voice…

"Edward?" His voice was raspy and confused. He had stretched his legs out and they lessened their protesting. He tried to move his head so that he could try and find the source of the voice, but that was a _very _bad idea. The world swam and Richie screwed his eyes shut for the pain and nausea.

"It does indeed," came another voice. One that filled Richie with dread.

_Romeo_.

"You are awake, aren't you?" The voice asked maliciously. He kicked Richie's foot a few times considerably harder than necessary to test that theory.

Richie could only groan in answer. Then he opened his eyes.

"Thought so."

Then, as if by unspoken command, four more figures appeared flanking their leader. Richie's eyes widened in first shock and then fear when he saw Edward, Ricardo, Julio, and Snake, all smiling down on him malevolently.

"Uh… Hi?"

* * *

Duncan turned down Pauling Avenue headed towards Richie's apartment. By some trick of either luck or fate, he discovered no parking spots in front of Richie's building, or past it. Since this was a one way street, Duncan had no choice but to circle back. With a groan he turned the corner and backtracked down a parallel street.

He didn't notice the figure standing in the alley between Richie's townhouse and the neighboring one. The boy stayed far enough in the shadows to not be seen, but he clearly saw the man with the ponytail driving the black T-bird slow down in front of Richie's apartment and then speed up to turn the corner. This wasn't good. Teo recognized him from Julio's description and proceeded to bang on the drainpipe with the handle of his switchblade, as Romeo bade him to do if he noticed 'company' stopping by.

* * *

Any comments the five gang members might have made were suddenly cut off by the distinct ringing of a drainpipe.

"Go see," Romeo directed to no one, and Julio bolted from the room and down the stairs. The remaining four looked about uneasily and Richie knew better than to break the uneasy silence. By now he had regained all five senses… and discovered to his dismay that he was tied to his own stove with garbage bags. _That explains how my arms feel_.

The moment was broken when Julio returned, another, younger boy in tow that Richie didn't recognize.

"I thought I told you to wait outside!" Romeo roared at the newest arrival, making him cower.

"Romeo," Julio interrupted, "the guy from the antique store is here!"

Richie looked up sharply and stiffened at the news. _MacLeod, here? Why?_ He was torn between confusion, gratitude, and sudden worry. MacLeod had no idea what he was about to walk into!

"Take care of him!" Romeo ordered to no one in particular, and Ricardo, Julio, and Edward immediately ran down the stairs. Teo moved to join them but Romeo grabbed him fiercely by the back jacket.

"You're staying right here," Romeo said tightly and Teo whipped around to face his brother. The two of them then began arguing in a language Richie didn't understand, with Snake looking on in equal confusion. Richie hoped that the three of them would forget that he was there until MacLeod could rescue him, and with that thought in mind, began to struggle against his bonds.

* * *

Duncan had parked the T-bird and was making his way towards Richie's apartment. As he approached, he saw three boys leave the building and, after fanning out slightly, march decidedly towards him. Duncan groaned in frustration because doing so would distract him from his sudden worry for Richie.

That groan was met by three knives that clicked open in three young hands.

"Is this really necessary?" Duncan asked, affecting tired annoyance in his voice.

One of the boys uttered a Spanish colloquialism that was rather insulting to Duncan's parentage, but the Highlander's only response was to sigh and then repeat his question, in Spanish. This caused a gasp from two of the three attackers. The third obviously didn't speak Spanish.

Then one of the boys attacked, clumsily slashing out with his knife. Duncan twisted aside, dodging easily, and caught the boy's forearm. He squeezed slightly and shook the arm and the knife clanged to the pavement. Duncan then pivoted, using centripetal force to fling the boy forcibly into the side of the building, where he dropped like a stone.

The Highlander barely had time to consider the fate of the boy whose head had just violently impacted the wall when the second boy attacked. Duncan couldn't help but smile at the fact that they chose to attack him one on one, in turn, instead of all at once.

* * *

The three gang members still in Richie's apartment had ceased their arguments. Two of them were now watching the fight from the living room window while the third, the youngest, sat on the couch smoking a cigarette. Richie was elated that they'd left him relatively unguarded and had almost succeeded in escaping his bonds when suddenly one of the boy at the window let out a shout:

"Ricardo!"

The voice was Snake's. It became apparent to Richie that MacLeod was winning the fight. He couldn't help but laugh at the thought of three rough-and-tumble gang members fighting a martial arts savvy murderer.

Another few seconds ticked by and then Romeo this time let out an exclamation of surprise. A wordless agreement was reached and the two boys withdrew their knives and ran back through the kitchen. Richie's heart leapt to his throat, fearing that they were going to kill him. Instead they ran past him without sparing him as much as a glance.

"Stay here!" Romeo shouted without turning around. Teo stopped in his tracks, and with a defeated sigh, returned to the window to watch the fight.

* * *

After disarming and thoroughly incapacitating the first assailant, Duncan ducked just in time for another awkward knife slash to arc ungracefully over his head. Using his lowered position, the Highlander swept out a leg and tripped the boy, sending him toppling over backwards.

The third boy then came at him. He brought his knife down in an awkward overhand strike and Duncan caught the boy's forearm, bracing with his all his strength as the boy sought with all of his to bring the steel home. Of course, the Highlander possessed far more brute strength than a scrawny eighteen year old and soon he'd overpowered the boy. Duncan shoved the boy's hand high over his head and then brought a fist in cleanly to the unfortunate youth's unprotected abdomen. When the boy doubled over, the Highlander proceeded to pound down hard on his back, sending him gasping to the pavement. Though not unconscious, he was obviously in too much pain to move.

The second boy, who had since pulled himself up, had waited for Duncan to finish pummeling his friend before moving in for a second attack. Perceiving MacLeod to be off balance and unprepared for a sudden attack, the boy launched himself at the Highlander. Of course, in his rage and, rather gross stupidity, he had forgotten his knife.

When Duncan felt the sudden impact of the boy jumping forward to impact his upper body, he ducked and rolled underneath it. The boy went toppling over him rather ungraciously and Duncan stood up again, reclaiming the proper battle stance. The boy rolled a few more feet and then moaned as he forced himself onto his hands and knees.

"Be a bright boy for once and stay down," Duncan directed, his tone authoritative and slightly mocking.

The boy complied, crumpling back in on himself with a moan that stretched into a whine.

It was at this point that Duncan's warrior instincts alerted him to the two not-so-silent assailants rushing towards him from behind. He turned just in time to see two boys throw themselves, knives drawn, at what would have been his back had he not moved.

Duncan jumped back and to the left just in time. The momentum of the first attacker carried him safely past Duncan, so the Highlander turned his attentions to the other. He didn't have time to worry about disarming this one without seriously injuring him as he was worried about the other knife behind his back. He grabbed the attacker's forearm and spun around away from the blade. This sent that boy staggering and Duncan came to rest directly in front of the boy who'd sailed past, but left his back opened to him. He then swiftly raised his free hand and landed a patented Bruce Lee-style blind punch over his shoulder, contacting securely with that boy's nose. The knife clanged to the pavement and Duncan swiftly moved away to bring both boys back into his field of vision. He saw the boy he'd just hit doubled over on his knees, his hands grasping at his nose as blood flowed freely.

He was now staring the last attacker to remain standing. The boy held his knife awkwardly, fear evident everywhere in his eyes and posture. Duncan had his back to the apartment complex and so for a fleeting moment had no idea what made the boy's eyes widen in surprise and sudden horror.

* * *

Richie was struggling to get out of the garbage bags-turned ropes that bound his hands to his stove. The young gang member was watching the fight from his living room window, obviously oblivious to what was going on behind him.

Finally Richie's struggles paid off: he was free! In his excitement and immense relief, he stood up all too quickly. His legs, still cramped from the uncomfortable seat on the floor, buckled beneath him at the same moment his head swam and red blotches tinged his vision. He'd almost forgotten about the probable concussion which now made its presence known. Richie grabbed out at the fading world to try and steady himself, and his hand contacted with the saucepan still on its burner, and sent it crashing to the floor, soup spilling everywhere.

The loud noise jarred Richie's senses back into functioning. He gripped the stove now for support as his legs regained some of their usefulness. His eyes snapped back into focus just in time to see the young gang member charging towards him.

Richie yelped and bolted for the door, practically throwing himself down the stairs and praying that MacLeod was winning the fight so that he wouldn't be greeted with knives when he made it to the street.

Teo gave chase, but realized that he couldn't run, wield a knife, and smoke a cigarette at the same time. He cast the still-smoldering half-smoked cigarette aside as he reached the kitchen.

The cigarette sailed through the air, dropping ashes and embers as it went. It landed on top of the stove, and part of its burning trail fell near the burner that, throughout these past events, still remained active. Richie had never bothered to shut it off when he crouched down to investigate the state of the pilot light. Gas was seeping out through the open burner even though it was not lit.

That was, of course, until it was lit by the glowing embers of the discarded cigarette. The gas outside the oven, which by that time had filled the entire apartment, but most strongly the kitchen, ignited into a fairly impressive fireball at the same time the embers that fell down into the burner itself ignited the gas still lingering within and the oven exploded violently.

Duncan saw the boys eyes widen as the windows of Richie's apartment were suddenly lit by a bright burst of flame in the millisecond before the glass panes shattered from the force of the exploding oven. The Highlander whirled around, detecting the flash behind him, in time to see the glass falling from the windows into the street. Smoke was now billowing out of the windows of the second floor apartment.

He didn't have time to worry over Richie's fate, however. In the instant that the glass had been blown from the windows Richie, who had been most of the way down the stairs at the time, was launched from the building by the force of the blast wave. He crashed through the door, which wasn't tightly closed in the first place, and sailed across the small slip of a sidewalk right into the side of a parked car. Since the car was a compact, and Richie had struck near the hood, his body was carried by its inertia right over the vehicle and deposited heavily and unceremoniously on the other side. The teen landed with a thud on his right side and rolled slightly before coming to a rest and laying disturbingly still.

Duncan turned quickly, not allowing himself to forget that there was still an armed assailant behind him. However, the gang members had picked themselves up and fled the scene, and Duncan had no clue as to where they had gone.

Not that he would have pursued them anyway. He quickly dismissed them from his mind as he ran over to—

"Richie!"

Duncan was quickly kneeling by the teen's side. Richie moaned and stirred slightly, rolling onto his side to find where this new voice was coming from.

"Easy lad," Duncan, directed gently, his brogue slipping in through his fatigue and concern. At first he was afraid to touch the teen, fearing of his injuries. Finally he settled on placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Just relax."

Richie moaned again at the touch but eventually he looked up and saw the highlander staring down at him. "M-Mac?" He stuttered, relief coursing through him.

"Aye," said Duncan, relieved that Richie was now fully conscious, and that he had recognized him. Gently he eased the teen back down. Richie came to lie flat on his back with Duncan's strong arms bracing his neck. Duncan noticed with growing concern the blood now showing on his hands that had obviously come from Richie's head, but he said nothing. There were sirens in the distance.

"Romeo…" Richie groaned out, trying desperately to voice the muddled concerns lurking in his mind.

"They're all gone now," Duncan assured, assuming that Richie was referring to one of his attackers.

"No…" Richie protested. "Kitchen…"

"It blew up," Duncan told him, not entirely sure what Richie was getting at.

Richie's face only belatedly registered the words. Even in the face of this realization, Richie could feel himself slinking farther and farther away from consciousness.

"No…" he tried again, his voice fading. "Someone…" The rest of the that thought went unfinished as Richie lost his tentative hold on consciousness and slipped softly into darkness once more just as the police cruisers and fire trucks came to a halt in the street behind them.

* * *

Once again, Duncan found himself pacing in the ER waiting room. This was getting to be cruelly familiar, he mused, as he brought Richie in with potentially life-threatening injuries for the _third_ time.

Richie had remained unconscious throughout the ambulance ride, and even though the paramedics assured him that this wasn't necessarily a _bad_ thing… Duncan was now taking out his worries on the linoleum tiling of the waiting room floor.

"Would you _stop_ your pacing?" Tessa asked from the seat closest to his trek. "You're making me seasick."

He had called her as soon as Richie was wheeled away on a gurney and she came straight away; her stained clothes and disheveled appearance attesting to that fact. Duncan had found her in the waiting room after he'd returned from that familiar little room where he once again had to give his statement to Powell. Now, Duncan was all for trying to see the good in people, but Powell… Duncan wondered idly if the sergeant ever knew how close he'd come to losing a few teeth.

"Sorry," he said distractedly in apology to Tessa. He fidgeted in place for a few seconds and then resumed his pacing. Before Tessa could react, however, a doctor came through the ER doors.

"Mr. MacLeod?" The doctor asked, addressing him. Duncan turned to face the man and Tessa stood to join him.

"How's Richie?" Duncan asked expectantly.

"Well he has a concussion from the head trauma, and the wound needed several stitches. We also had to set his left humerusbone, since he broke that, probably when he collided with the parked car. Other than that he sustained only minor cuts and bruises. We need to keep him overnight for observation, because of the head wound, but he should be fine."

Duncan and Tessa breathed a collective sigh of relief when the doctor finished his spiel. "Can we see him?" Tessa asked.

The doctor knew from experience that he wouldn't get far by denying them the privilege. "Sure," he said finally, with an almost exasperated air of defeat. "If you'll follow me?"

The doctor led them through the corridors of the ER until they came to the private rooms. Richie was in the third on the left, apparently resting comfortably, while he waited for an available room upstairs. The doctor indicated the room and then left the couple in privacy.

Duncan entered the room hesitantly, followed by Tessa. Richie's left arm was in a cast, supported by ties from the ceiling, and he had a large white bandage on his head wrapped with something akin to an Ace Bandage. He was asleep, but awoke suddenly when he heard people approaching. With a groan he rolled over and took stock of his surroundings as he noticed his visitors approaching.

"Don't say it," he said weakly, almost whining. "Please don't say it."

In spite of himself, Duncan quirked an evil grin betrayed only by the humor in his eyes.

"You're in the hospital again."

Richie moaned pitifully as Duncan laughed good-naturedly. Then, in a small and petulant voice, he said: "I asked you not to tell me that."

The laughter and camaraderie was suddenly broken up when the three heard an indignant cough behind them. Duncan and Tessa turned to see Powell standing in the doorway holding his trusty clipboard.

"Can't this wait?" Duncan asked, his obvious dislike of the man coloring his voice.

"'Fraid not," said Powell indifferently. "Now that this has become a homicide investigation." D

uncan's blood suddenly ran cold. _Had he accidentally killed one of those boys?_ He could barely repress a shudder at thought. Meanwhile:

"Homicide?" Tessa asked in incredulous disbelief.

Powell nodded gravely.

"The kid in the kitchen," said Richie, almost absently. When three pairs of eyes finally returned their gaze to him they saw that all color had drained from his face.

Powell nodded again. "I'm going to need your statement."

Richie nodded dumbly. A pointed glance from Powell told Duncan and Tessa to wait outside and a near-threatening return glare from the Highlander warned Powell to behave himself. Powell then shut the door behind him.

To Duncan's immense relief, and slight surprise, Powell emerged from the room barely ten minutes later. Duncan and Tessa immediately came forward, and it became obvious that the policeman wasn't escaping without informing them of what had just transpired.

"Well his story matches yours," he said to Duncan, "and with what his doctors have said."

"Was there a doubt?" Duncan asked dangerously. Tessa grabbed his arm to steady him.

"Just doing my job," said Powell tiredly. "He claims that he was trying to heat some soup when his stove didn't light. He bent down to check the pilot light and was caught unawares when the gang broke in. Apparently they clubbed him with a baseball bat and tied him to that same stove using a few garbage bags." Powell nearly started laughing at this point, but one glance at Duncan sobered him again. "Then you showed up and three left. Then two more left, presumably to help their buddies. The kid—"

"Richie," Duncan corrected, his voice low and threatening.

"_Richie_," Powell acquiesced tiredly, "then claims that he got out of his bonds and made a break for it. He got most of the way down the stairs before the explosion sent him careening into the street, where he broke his arm." It seemed that Powell was finished, and Duncan nodded absently, processing what he had just told.

"And the _murder victim_?" Tessa inquired, throwing Powell's choice of words back in his face and rather enjoying the feel of it.

The policeman sighed. "He was apparently the one gang member left to guard Richie while the rest went to take down MacLeod here. He must have been standing near the stove at flashpoint. He suffered major burns and died en route. Richie has tentatively identified him as fifteen year old Teo Vasquez."

"Fifteen?" Tessa asked, shocked.

"They start young here, Ms. Noel," Powell said dismissively. "Right now it looks like the death was accidental, but we have to wait and see what CSI turns up. In the meantime, we still have five assault and B & E suspects at large."

"Does Richie know why they went after him?" Duncan asked.

Powell eyes the Highlander with scrutiny for a moment before answering.

"He claims that the gang thinks he owes them money and broke in to take it out of his hide," he explained at length. He then made to take his leave, but Duncan's stony voice stopped him.

"You'll let us know what the CSI team turns up," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Of course," Powell replied, once again dismissively, and then he walked away swiftly without looking back. The lovers waited until he was gone before attempting conversation.

"Fifteen…" said Tessa, shaking her head. "What a waste."

"It's like the man said," said Duncan sadly. "They start young."

"And Richie knew him."

Duncan sighed. "I'll bet he knew _all_ of them."

Tessa just shook her head. "What do we do now?"

Duncan shrugged slightly. "There's not much we can do," he said. "At least not right now." Tessa nodded. "Come on." With that, he led her back into Richie's room.

They found Richie pretty much as they'd left him. He was still strikingly pale and his expression reminded Duncan of the one that kid wore after he'd punched him in the gut.

"Richie?" He spoke tentatively.

Richie was dragged from his private and rather morbid thoughts but gave no real outward sign that he had drifted. He tensed slightly, but then relaxed when he recognized the voice.

"Teo was fifteen, Mac," Richie said without so much as looking in their direction. "Fifteen."

"I know," said Duncan, encroaching further but making his movements slow and cautious, always keeping within Richie's line of sight. Tessa hung back, not knowing quite what to do.

"They were all smokin' cigs," he said, his voice still toneless. "I should have warned them."

Duncan's heart clenched at the words. Richie was blaming himself for the death.

"Well given that they knocked you out and tied you up," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "I think it's safe to say that you had other things on your mind at the time."

Richie snorted a laugh. "Teo was never fast enough to keep up with us," he said, his voice still an unreadable void. "We used to tease him mercilessly. His bike was broke and didn't ride right. It wasn't his fault. All he ever wanted was to be like his brother…"

"Richie…" Duncan reached forward and put a hand on the teen's shoulder.

Richie didn't even acknowledge the contact.

"I didn't recognize him at first, when he came in. He was all grown up."

"Did you know him well?" Tessa asked, finally moving forward to become part of the conversation.

Richie's lips twitched into a mirthless smile. "We all did," he said. "He was Romeo's kid brother."

All of a sudden that name struck chords within Duncan's mind. "Was he the one that stabbed you?"

Richie nodded. "Now his kid brother's dead."

For lack of something better to do or say, Duncan tightened his grip on the teen's shoulder.

"Powell said the rest of them escaped?" Richie asked, finally looking up at Duncan with wide and fearful eyes that barely contained also sorrow and guilt. Duncan nodded and Richie sighed in a quasi-defeated way.

"He's gonna blame me, you know. For Teo's death."

"What?" Tessa asked, even though she'd head exactly right.

"They'll regroup," said Richie, once again looking on Duncan with wide, fearful, and uncertain eyes. "And they'll come for me."


	12. Came Crashing Down

When Richie was released from the hospital, both Duncan and Tessa had insisted that he return to the loft. The coroner's report verified that Teo had died as a result of his injuries sustained during the blast, but there was still no word yet from the crime scene investigators. Therefore, Richie couldn't return to his shell of an apartment even if he wanted to, not even to collect what of his possessions had survived the blast.

The Highlander had another reason for the insistence as well: he was going to personally insure the teen's safety until the perpetrators were caught. And, given his confidence in Powell's desire to actually _do_ something about the case, he feared that Richie's steps would be haunted for a long time yet.

For the third time, Richie Ryan was released from the hospital into the care of Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel. He returned to the loft as settled back in easily, not protesting when they told him that he wasn't to move from the couch until bedtime.

He spent two nights in this fashion: sleeping in the guest room, stumbling to the table for brunch, being directed to the couch, being joined for dinner in front of the TV, and then being ushered back to bed. He napped on the couch more often than he would have liked to admit, so the lack of cable television wasn't as annoying as it might have been. Other times he would renew the ritual of watching old movies with Tessa. Duncan, sensing that the teen might want a bit more variety, rented a few plot-deprived action movies. Richie, of course, was delighted, and Duncan was rewarded by being invited to share in the 'pleasure.' The Highlander accepted graciously, and even found himself enjoying some of the films in spite of himself.

On his third day out of the hospital, Richie was deemed well enough to be allowed to shower. Before that there was the fear of him collapsing from either the effort or the residual effects of the head wound. This day, already brightened by his newfound freedom, was improved upon even more when Powell called to inform them that Richie had been cleared of any and all wrong-doing in the matter and that he was now free to scour what remained of his apartment for things to salvage. What the CSI team removed could be picked up at the station.

The following day, Duncan took Richie to the precinct to pick up his belongings, of which there were four boxes, each item therein neatly tagged and stored in various plastic bags. These all fit in the trunk, albeit with not a lot of room to spare. Thus they returned to the loft to unload. Richie spent the remainder of his day going through those boxes and seeing exactly what the investigators had removed (and subsequently puzzling over their reasons why). It took much longer than necessary because Richie had to do so one-handedly.

Thankfully, most of those items were salvageable, though many required cleaning. Those that didn't Richie repacked with a heavy heart, the weight of all that had happened to him made all the more real. This was what remained of all his hard work, all his independence: slightly charred souvenirs of the best, and shortest, life he'd ever lead.

The art of going through the remains of his apartment was an all day affair, so it was left for the following Sunday. Richie looked forward to it with great anticipation. Not only did it mean seeing how the rest of his belongings faired, it meant the end of wearing Duncan's old clothes, which were considerably too big on him.

Sure enough, the three of them spent the entire day at the apartment, filling bags and boxes with what could be spared. Fortunately, most of the damage was contained to the kitchen and living room. The bedroom, being the farthest away, was mostly spared, save for the wall it shared with the kitchen that happened to also be the wall where the stove abutted. Thankfully, or rather, to Richie's gratefulness, that wasn't the wall that contained his closet, so everything therein was spared, and thus he retained at least half his wardrobe. Tessa couldn't help but feel disappointed, for all knew her less-than-voiced opinions on the teen's sense of fashion.

It required two trips in both the T-bird and the Mercedes, but eventually all that was salvageable that Richie cared to bring with him was removed from the burned out shell of an apartment. It was well, too, for the following Monday the city workers were set to arrive.

"I'm going to miss the place," said Richie rather wistfully as he gazed upon the brownstone that once held his apartment. He and Duncan were just about to depart with the last car load.

"It was the first place you lived in on your own," said Duncan. "You always remember a place like that more fondly than maybe it's due."

Richie nodded. "Do you miss your first place?"

Duncan couldn't stop the laugh as he was suddenly reminded of the shallow, drafty cave he spent his first winter in after being banished from his clan. He had lived there, and in similar places, until Connor found him many months later.

"Not really," he admitted truthfully. "But then, it was a cold-water flat in the highlands. Your first was much better than mine." It was a good-natured half-truth, for there was a stream just outside. Hot water didn't exist, and neither did electricity, or plumbing… It made Richie laugh though.

"Cold water eh?" Richie asked, trying to envision it.

"It was cheap," Duncan defended half-heartedly.

"I'll bet the neighborhood was better," Richie offered with mild sarcasm.

"It was," Duncan agreed. "But that's not saying much."

Richie shot the Highlander a mock-hurt glare, but then the two of them dissolved into laughter.

"C'mon," said Duncan, making his way back to the car. "Let's get you unpacked. Then I'm sure we can convince Tessa that she really isn't in the mood to cook tonight, and go out somewhere."

"Pizza?" Richie offered hopefully.

Duncan exaggerated a sigh. "Somewhere," he reiterated, and then the two drove back to the loft.

* * *

"What are your plans for a new place to live?" Tessa asked Richie. They were seated in a small booth in a cheap but quality diner, for Richie, although welcoming of the invitation to dine out, objected to them spending lots of money on him. That and the fact that he didn't want to go somewhere fancy wearing a pair of MacLeod's old sweats.

Richie shrugged in answer to the question.

"I suppose I should go apartment hunting," he said with a sigh. He was not looking forward to the prospect, especially since Romeo had made off with the last of his spending money and thus he couldn't afford a first and last month's rent deposit.

"There's no hurry," said Duncan.

Richie shifted his gaze to his employer. "What do you mean?"

"He means that you can stay in the loft until you find a place of your own," Tessa explained.

Richie blinked in surprise.

"Don't look so surprised," Duncan chided. "After all this time, did you really think that we'd kick you out when you've got nowhere to go?"

After a moment Richie returned to his senses. "Well, no," he stammered. "But I kinda figured you were getting sick of me by now. I mean, sick of me living in your guestroom and raiding your fridge and using all your hot water."

"Richie, I have never seen anyone take faster showers than you," Duncan said seriously. "Besides," he added, "you're handy to have around."

"You mean it?" Richie asked with childlike uncertainty. It was strange to him that the sentiment had such an affect, but then again he didn't care so long as it was true.

"Of course," the Highlander reassured.

"I like having my laundry done for me," said Tessa with a smile. "And you've been invaluable to me in my workshop."

Richie blushed at the sudden praise.

"And I really would like you to stay until you get that cast off," said Duncan with the guise of an offhand comment.

Richie immediately sobered and turned a fixed glare to his employer. "But that'll be three whole months!" He exclaimed in disbelief.

"Is it?" Duncan asked passively, not caring.

"Richie," Tessa said quickly, cutting off all comment. "Duncan and I have talked about this. We really would feel better if you stayed with us while you're healing."

"But I'm right-handed," Richie protested.

"What's that got to do with it?" Tessa asked, confused.

"It means I'm not helpless," he said rather hotly. While he had accepted their hospitality before, it had always been in the wake of a life-threatening injury or illness. This was just a broken bone!

"We never said you were," said Duncan matter-of-factly.

"Right handed or left," said Tessa, "it's easier when you've got two good ones, and right now you've only got one."

"So why not add four more?" Duncan asked with a smile.

Richie's piercing gaze darted back and forth between the two. Mac and Tessa had always treated him with respect. He felt that in their eyes, he was a respectable adult, capable of handling his responsibilities. It was the first time he had ever felt so, because it was the first time such reassurances came from people whose opinions he trusted and valued. It was the last thread of independence he had, this mature feeling. Was he to lose that too when insisted on mollycoddling him?

"I'm grateful for the offer," said Richie, making ready to turn it down.

"But?" Tessa interrupted in the pause Richie had unwillingly placed there.

Richie shook his head, unsure of how to proceed. "But it's just a broken bone," he said eventually. "It won't kill me."

Duncan bit his tongue against the thoughts he nearly voiced.

"And besides, I need my space, as I'm sure you two do, too," he finished, sounding more sure of himself than he truly was.

"Well, you're staying until you find an apartment," said Duncan firmly, but not harshly.

Richie didn't contest the point.

"Preferably one in a better neighborhood," Tessa added.

Richie snorted. "I'm not sure I could afford one in a better neighborhood."

Tessa and Duncan exchanged a glance.

"The longer you stay with us, the more money you could save," said Duncan.

"If I were you," said Tessa in a tone that only Duncan recognized, "then I would stay with us, hoarding all my paychecks, for as long as I could get away with it, until I could afford a decent apartment."

Richie smiled and shook his head, unable to ignore the logic.

"But, since you've got far better morals than Tessa had at your age, I know you wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," said Duncan with a devilish twinkle in his eye despite the mostly-playful slap Tessa gave his arm. Richie couldn't help but laugh. "But I'm sure it's within the bounds of your character to stay for a few months, rent free, hoarding your paychecks, because you were invited."

Once again Richie shifted his gaze between his two employers, not able to stop his quiet laughter. After a time he finally nodded.

"Alright, alright," he acquiesced at last, though there was a hint of defeat in his voice. "I'll stay—but just 'til I get this damn cast off."

Duncan and Tessa smiled and the three returned to eating. Richie, once again, felt like he had just been played. These two always had a way of making him do things he normally wouldn't do. It was a late realization that he was starting to not mind so much.

And so Richie moved back into the loft for what was set up to be a gestation of three more months. He had all of his personal effects with him this time, however. Slowly but surely, and with permission, he decorated his room accordingly. Other than the few items he displayed, and his clothes in the closet and dresser, everything else remained in boxes stacked in Tessa's workshop.

Richie insisted on keeping busy, but his work was rather limited with the use of only one arm. He could still dust anything and everything in the shop, and keep the windows spotless. He typed the expense reports into the computer, grateful for once for the chore because it took him longer typing one-handed. He even insisted on continuing to do the laundry, dragging the baskets back and forth with his good arm, or kicking them when no one was looking.

Richie was bound and determined to prove that he could take care of himself, even with the broken arm. After all he had lost, he would fight to the death to retain his independence… and the respect Duncan and Tessa had offered him, which was perceived to be a partial result of that independence.

And in this fashion a month slipped by. Richie took their advice and began hoarding his paychecks, however this time Duncan took him to the bank and he opened a savings account, complete with the direct deposit of his checks. Richie had managed to save an even thousand dollars by the end of that month, being paid two fifty a week and not spending a penny of it.

In the wake of teaching the teen all about proper banking, Duncan also took the time to explain the finer workings of income tax form evaluation. Tessa stealthily left the room, lest in her mirth she let slip that her lover would be a better teacher in the art of income tax _evasion_. She still caught the sound of laughter, however, when Richie remarked at the irony of how his taxes had probably saved his life.

* * *

That day, such as those that followed, was progressing much like the others. This particular day, Richie had opened the store with Duncan, but had been given leave for lunch and wasn't due back downstairs for an hour yet. Tessa was in her workshop, obsessing over her bicentennial sculpture, or at least she was, before she reentered the loft.

"What are you doing?" She asked Richie, who was seated at the kitchen table, an empty plate shoved aside in favor of the morning paper.

"Oh, hi Tess," He greeted warmly, looking up. "I didn't hear you come up."

"Obviously not," she said with a smile as she took his empty plate and put it in the dishwasher.

"How's your sculpture?"

Tessa sighed audibly as she retrieved the orange juice from the fridge. "I can't stand to look at it any more today," she said, her tone clipped in a very French manner.

"So don't" Richie offered neutrally. "You've been at it every day this week. You should take a break."

Tessa sighed again, pouring her juice. "I suppose you're right," she said. "You want any?"

"No thanks," he said, returning his attentions to the newspaper.

"You never did answer my question," said Tessa, leaving the kitchen for the dining area. Richie looked up at her questioningly. "What are you doing?" She asked again.

"Oh," he said with an embarrassed laugh. "Just pricing apartments."

Tessa frowned. "That anxious to be out of here?"

"No," he answered quickly. "I just wanna find out which neighborhoods are charging what and for what types of places, ya know?"

Tessa nodded, a slightly disbelieving smile gracing her fair features. "Mmm-hmm," she answered knowingly.

"Hey," Richie defended. "You're the one who wanted me to find a better place. How can I do that if I don't know where to look?"

Tessa laughed at Richie's stricken expression. He still hadn't grown quite used to her European sense of humor. Her expression, however, finally conveyed its meaning and Richie laughed too, all thoughts of offense forgotten.

"I just want you to find a safer place than your old one," she said, suddenly serious.

"Hey, it was plenty safe! _I_ brought Romeo's gang there, not my apartment."

Tessa nodded, a strange expression on her face that Richie couldn't place. He couldn't know that Tessa was thinking the same things about her loft right now. It was a safe place too; Duncan was the unsafe element. Suddenly she wondered if Richie would truly be safe staying there with them. Surely it was no more or less dangerous than any other place Richie was looking to move?

"Safe neighborhood or not," she said at last, dismissively, "you should at least find a place that doesn't try to kill you itself. You were very lucky last time, Richie," she finished seriously.

Richie's face darkened as his smile faded. "A kid died," he said softly. "How is that lucky?"

Tessa opened her mouth as if to say that he is lucky because he still lives, but the look on Richie's face made her lose all conviction in the matter. Richie sensed her awkward reaction, knowing that she didn't know what to say to answer him, and he regretted his words.

"I'll go with electric next time," he said finally, striving to lighten the mood.

Tessa rewarded his efforts with a relieved smile before making her excuses and heading for a much-needed shower.

* * *

Across town in the warehouse district, a lone figure was making his way down the alley. He stopped in front of a small side door and knocked first three times and then twice more. Several seconds later the door swung open.

"Well?" Romeo asked from his seat on a ragged couch cushion. The warehouse had several such adornments, as well as a broken table and numerous flashlights. Several six packs, in various states of consumption, as well as random drug paraphernalia, also littered the make-shift hideout.

"No trace of the cops," said Edward with a proud grin.

"They just leave you alone cuz you're white," said Julio irritably.

Edward flipped him off for his troubles.

"And?" Romeo prompted.

"And Ryan's back livin' in the antique store," said Edward. Several of the gang members groaned.

"How we s'pos'd ta get him now?" Ricardo asked, or rather, whined.

"Why don't we just stake the place out and jump him when he leaves?" Snake offered.

"Brilliant," said Julio sarcastically. "Attack him in the rich neighborhood in broad daylight, when the cops is already looking for us? Man, you gots'ta lay off the weed, man. It's making you fucked."

Snake growled, but said nothing.

"And I don't wanna go near that other dude, neither," said Ricardo, reminding everyone of their ineffectiveness against MacLeod.

"Totally," Edward agreed. "Guy must be, like, ex-military, or something."

The others nodded.

"Well I want him," said Romeo, his voice menacing.

"But why?" Julio asked. "It's Richie's fault Teo died."

"If that man hadn't shown up, Teo wouldn't have gone into the apartment in the first place."

The others accepted the logic.

"But, we all would have been up there." Ricardo pointed out. Unfortunately, he was seated closest to Romeo, who didn't take kindly to the comment. Before Ricardo knew what hit him, he was sprawled back on the floor, his lip split open and bleeding freely from the force of Romeo's punch.

"I don't care about that!" He practically roared. "All that matters is Teo's dead, and Richie and that man are to blame!"

Edward rolled a cigarette over to Romeo in a silent gesture telling him to calm down. Romeo was still fuming, but he took and lit the cigarette anyway. It took several long drags for him to relax again.

"I want them both dead," he said finally, his voice low and deadly.

Everyone else nodded solemnly.

* * *

Richie was wiping the display cases again, one handedly, singing softly to himself to ease the boredom. Tessa had gone to meet with the bicentennial committee to show them Polaroids of her sculpture and MacLeod was out running errands. Richie was left to himself to mind the store. It was approaching five p.m., and since it was already approaching late fall, the sky had already turned to twilight as the sun was setting unseen in this overcast day.

MacLeod had left nearly twenty minutes ago. Enough time for the boy shadowing the antique store to be certain that he wasn't coming back. Now he knew that Richie was all alone in the store, and he walked over to the payphone down the street and placed a call.

"Ai, Romeo… Yeah… Yeah he's alone… Right… On my way." Edward hung up the phone and swiftly—but not so much as would attract attention—and began the long trek back across town to the warehouse. Being the only Caucasian gang member, he was the ideal choice for their stakeout. The cops wouldn't think twice about the presence of one of their own in that neighborhood, especially if he was dressed presentably. His task complete, Edward now hurried to be in time for part two.

Across town, Romeo just hung up the payphone by the warehouse. Someone had jacked it years ago to make it accept incoming calls. Now it was time for part two, and Romeo fumbled around in his pockets for a quarter. Smiling at the thought of how the antique store phone number was listed in the yellow pages, he unfolded a piece of scrap paper and dialed the number written there.

Richie answered the phone on the third ring.

"MacLeod and Noel Antiques, this is Richie." His professional greeting was met with subdued, malicious laughter.

"Nice new place, Ryan," came a familiar voice, and Richie's blood ran cold. "I see you're moving up in the world, eh? Good for you."

"What do you want, Romeo?" Richie asked through clenched teeth.

"You've got a nice new family, Ryan," said Romeo, speaking as though he hadn't heard Richie's question. I bet they're the kind that plaster their faces on Christmas cards. Especially the lady." If possibly, Richie blanched even further as he felt his heart stop in his chest.

"Tessa…"

"She's a mighty fine woman, Richie," Romeo continued, enjoying every minute of this.

"What have you done to her you bastard!" Richie demanded, once he finally regained the ability to speak.

"Come to the warehouse district and find out for yourself. Building thirty four."

"If you've hurt her, I swear—"

"You're in no place to threaten me, Ryan," Romeo growled fiercely. "Come alone, and no cops! If I so much as _smell_ a pig near you, all you'll have left of that pretty blond are happy little memories."

"Ok, ok!" Richie hurriedly reassured. "I'll be there. Just… just let me talk to her." Romeo laughed, harder this time.

"Well I would, my friend, but Snake here has her pretty mouth otherwise engaged." Romeo had to cover the receiver just then so that the laughter of his comrades didn't reach Richie on the other end. Of course they didn't have Tessa, but with her gone, Richie had no way of knowing that.

"You are so going to regret this," said Richie threateningly, envisioning MacLeod's katana dealing with those who dared to harm his lover. However, Romeo didn't hear him as he was preoccupied holding the phone away.

"Hurry up, Ryan. I won't wait all day for you… and neither will the boys." A click and a dial tone, and Richie was left holding a humming receiver.

It took him nearly a minute before he regained enough of his senses to put the phone down. His next thought was to dial 911, but Romeo had said no cops, and Richie knew that he wasn't lying. Besides, calling the police would inevitably involve Sergeant Powell, and that would only delay matters. And Tessa didn't have that kind of time.

Richie had no choice: he had to head to the warehouse. Alone.

However, Romeo didn't say anything about not telling MacLeod.

Richie ran into the office and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. He quickly scribbled a note to MacLeod, telling him everything that Romeo had said. Hopefully Mac wouldn't be too long with his errands and Richie could buy enough time for him to arrive with the cavalry.

It was the only hope he had.

Richie arrived at the warehouse district in just under twenty minutes. Not bad timing considering he had to hoof it all the way on foot. He paused within site of building thirty four to catch his breath and try to come up with the best course of action. He just needed to stall them; to keep them from hurting Tessa (and himself) until MacLeod arrived with the cavalry. With these thoughts in mind, Richie slowly made his way over to number thirty four, trying to stop his mind from conjuring the potential horrors that he would find lurking inside.

Richie found the front door easily enough; it was the trailer hatch large enough to drive through. However, Richie didn't think that blindly strolling forward and knocking on the door would be a good idea, so instead he made his way to one of the many windows.

They were dirty, both inside and out, and he could barely see inside. What he did manage to see was three gang members seated on partially broken chairs and solitary couch cushions. He couldn't make out who they were from here, but he knew that at least two others were unaccounted for. His stomach flip-flopped when he rationalized that they were somewhere else, most likely with Tessa.

He also saw a side door at the other end of the warehouse and decided that it would be the best place to go knocking. However, he was torn as to if he should wait a while longer to give MacLeod more time, or if he should go in now because the longer Romeo had to wait for him, the more likely he would be to take out his frustrations on his hostage. As far as Richie was concerned, it was a lose-lose situation.

After a few agonizing moments of indecision, Richie finally decided that the best course of action was to simply get this over with. Hopefully they would let Tessa go as soon as they had him. After all, she had absolutely nothing to do with this. He made his way around the perimeter as stealthily as he could and soon found himself standing in front of the access door on the far side. He couldn't stop the slight laugh that escaped his lips as he brought his hand up to rap on the hard metal door.

* * *

Duncan arrived back at the loft only seconds after Tessa did. He met her in her workshop as she was putting her presentation materials back in their proper place.

"How'd it go?" Duncan asked.

Tessa turned to him and smiled. "They seemed pleased with my progress," she answered. "They still want me to complete it."

Duncan returned her smile as he walked over to where she stood. "See," he said, draping his arms over her shoulders and drawing their heads closer together. "I told you they'd love it."

Tessa frowned slightly. "I didn't say they loved it," she corrected, the worry and self-doubt showing in her eyes as well as her voice. "I just said that they want me to finish it."

Duncan suppressed the urge to sigh, instead choosing to widen his smile. "Well they must be impressed with what you've shown them," he said rationally, "or else they would have repealed your commission."

Tessa's frown contorted into a more thoughtful expression. "I suppose," she answered finally.

"Or else they're just morbidly curious," Duncan added with a cheeky grin that earned him a playful smack.

They lingered in each other's company for a moment longer and then Duncan forced himself to pry away. He had receipts that needed to be filed before he forgot about them. With a quick kiss, Tessa let him go and returned her attentions to her folio.

When Tessa entered the antique store a few minutes later, she found Duncan standing in the office holding a notepad.

"Duncan?" She asked as she came to stand in the doorway. Suddenly alerted to her presence, he looked up at her, and his expression frightened her. "What's wrong?" She asked fearfully. "An immortal?" He handed her the notepad, and she entered the office and took it from him.

Then she read Richie's note.

_Mac,  
Romeo called. He's got Tessa. Warehouse 34. They want me alone, no cops. I'm going over there to stall them. Call the cops AS SOON AS YOU READ THIS!  
Richie_

"Oh my God…" Tessa exclaimed, rereading the note again and again. "He didn't leave a time."

"It had to have been in the last hour or so," said Duncan, snapping out of the seeming trance he was in. "I wasn't gone all that long."

"What are you going to do?" She asked, and instinctively the Highlander felt the weight of his katana in the hidden pocket of his duster that he hadn't taken off yet.

"Call the police," he said. "Tell them what happened. I'm going over there."

Tessa nodded. "But Mac, Powell—"

"I don't care about Powell!" He yelled suddenly. "Just—just call them." With that he brushed past her, stopping only to hastily plant a kiss on her cheek.

Tessa turned and watched him hurry through the door to the workshop as he made his way out back to his T-bird. When he was gone, she ran to the phone on the desk and hastily called 911.

* * *

If it were happening to someone else, Richie might have found it humorous. Everything about the situation screamed 'TRAP!' But Tessa was in there… or so he'd been told. Even still, he couldn't afford to take the chance. Tessa was hands down the nicest person he'd met in a long, long time. And there were so few _nice_ people in the world… and even fewer that Richie was fortunate enough to meet. He _couldn't_ gamble that Romeo was lying, even though it very likely meant that he was in for worlds and worlds of pain. The guilt would be worse… it always was.

_Knock_

They call it 'survivor guilt.'

_Knock_

Worse is 'helplessness guilt.'

_KNOCK!_

Worse still is the guilt of never having tried.

Richie's hand was raised to knock again, loud enough that he knew that his knuckles would bruise. His hand was raised just slightly in the motion of knocking when the door suddenly swung open violently from the inside. Richie's raised forearm caught most of the blow, but the force still sent him hurtling backwards.

Those few precious moments of lost balance were enough though. He didn't see the familiar bat getting ready to hit another grand slam against his skull, but in the half-second before the wood connected, his flailing arms deflected most of the blow. The bat slammed into his cast and his arm erupted in pain, causing the world to tilt even more violently as red spots tinged his vision and nausea overcame him.

Richie dropped to his knees, in too much pain to suddenly cry out, even though his throat strove for that effect. Being thusly positioned and already mostly incapacitated, he was defenseless against the quick kick to his head that sent him straight into oblivion.

* * *

The first thing that Richie was aware of was a strange itching in his good arm. Sadly this piqued his curiosity, and when his muddled mind strove for a higher plain of consciousness the rest of his senses kicked in. His head swam in a dizziness unlike anything he'd ever felt. And he felt warm, almost sickeningly so. He couldn't feel the sweat that made his clothes cling to his body, but he could smell it. Or rather, it was the putrid scent of salt mixed with other… things. After trying to ponder this cacophony of smell, it suddenly occurred to him that his hearing had returned. However, upon closer inspection it seemed to him that it had never left in the first place. Everything sounded muffled and underwater, and he hadn't the foggiest clues as to why.

He thought of opening his eyes, but thought better of it. If he were this dizzy now, just imagine what actually _seeing_ the room spin would do!

At a complete loss as to what was happening and how he came to be in this position, suddenly the most frightening of realizations came to him: he couldn't move! He had no real feeling in his arms and legs, aside from the warmth and slight itch. They felt like lead and tingled slightly, almost in a pins-and-needles fashion.

Being so immobilized scared him into full alertness.

Then the memories came back.

_Tessa!_

His mind screamed at him. The underwater sounds shifted dramatically, growing louder. It then occurred to Richie to wonder if he had just spoken out loud. He didn't feel it in his throat if he did.

He needed answers, and he needed them now! What had they done to him? Why couldn't he move? Where was Tessa? These questions were enough motivation for him to strive to open his eyes. He did so cautiously, first one eye, then the other, then both together, slowly. The light was bright to the point of painfulness, and with that pain came nausea and a pounding headache.

He remembered his concussion and had the mind to groan, but again he couldn't tell if he managed it corporeally or if it remained in his head. The sounds in his ears made no sense and he couldn't tell if they changed any.

Finally things came into focus. Slowly but surely, his vision cleared enough for him to be able to at least make out his surroundings. Everything seemed pitched slightly, and fuzzy around the edges, like the seeing the world through someone else's glasses.

It was clear enough for him to be able to discern Romeo's face staring down at him maliciously. Richie opened his mouth as if to speak, but since he couldn't feel his throat at all, he just had to trust that he was indeed speaking aloud.

"Tessa?" He asked. His voice was raspy and tired, but indeed it reached Romeo's ears, and the gang banger laughed. That was the indication that Richie had been heard.

It was also the indication that his hearing was improving. There was still a slight ringing to everything, but at least he could distinguish amongst various sounds.

From the tone of Romeo's laughter, Richie nearly wished he couldn't.

After hearing came smell and touch. And both combined to make Richie nauseous. He recognized the smells surrounding him now, and they shamed him. He felt the sickly slickness of his own skin, and how his tee shirt clung to him with sweat. He felt the heat of his body, and the heavy weighted sensations that seemed to stop at his neck, for somehow his head was floating. He knew that he couldn't move. Sure he could wiggle his fingers and toes, for that's how he knew that his limbs were still attached. But he couldn't get up if his life depended on it.

He had figured that it probably did, and he still hadn't been able to move.

It was only then, in the midst of the whiplash sounds of Romeo's laughter, did Richie realize that he didn't feel pain aside from the throbbing in his head. He remembered being struck in his injured arm, and yet he couldn't feel it.

A sickening sense of dread washed over him. Dread brought on by the sudden flash of memory. Remove the smells and the other touch sensations and the body feels exactly the same.

Only that strange itching coming from his right arm is placed too high. It's in the crook of his elbow. It should be in his hand, connected to an IV.

Morphine.

Or, in gang territory, the next best thing. Richie closed his eyes, the pain of realization upping his nausea ten-fold, even as the sounds of sadistic laughter died away. He didn't need to turn his head to see the needle in his arm, or to ask Romeo for verification as to what the syringe contained.

They had drugged him, with heroin.

* * *

Duncan arrived at the warehouse in record time, having violated every traffic law along the way. He knew this section of warehouses, for he often sparred or took challenges in them. Number thirty four had two trailer doors and various side entrances. It also had roof access, even though the fire escape had long since rusted and fallen away.

Duncan quickly made his way to the windows and peered inside. He saw five gang members standing around something on the floor. He couldn't tell what it was but he guessed it to be Richie and his stomach lurched. He didn't feel the pre-immortal buzz.

Despite the immediate allure of busting down the door and charging in like some form of clichéd cowboy hero, Duncan knew that his best chances lay in surprise. Warehouse forty was just as tall as warehouse thirty four, and only ten feet away across the back ally. And forty had roof access. He could climb the fire escape, for it was miraculously still in tact, and then jump across to warehouse thirty four. Then he could enter through the roof onto the catwalk and hopefully get the drop on the gang members from above.

It was the best plan he could think of.

* * *

Richie could hear the gang members taunting him, but when he realized his fate he was somehow able to dull his hearing again. At least, he hoped that it was a conscious choice to do so. He also felt odd pressure sensations along his body, and spent most of his energy trying to discern what they meant. It's a good thing he couldn't feel pain, or else he'd be aware of Romeo kicking him mercilessly while the other boys watched and laughed.

His eyes were half opened, for as tired as he was, he was afraid to close them. However, since he was quite immobilized, he couldn't move his head to turn and look anywhere but the ceiling.

That's when his vision spotted something moving on the catwalk above him.

At first it appeared to be a shadow, but then gradually he was able to focus better and the shadow took shape and became a person. He tried to squint, attempting to bring whoever it was into clearer focus, but his eyelids wouldn't obey his commands.

That was probably a good thing, or else Romeo would have been curious to see what Richie saw. This way, the entire gang was caught unawares by the Highlander's surprise entrance.

It may have been a bit melodramatic, even for Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but he had bigger things to worry about. Once inside the warehouse, he was spurred on by the sensation of Richie's pre-immortality, signaling that the teen was in fact still alive. However, from the looks of the punishment Romeo's steel-toed boots were doling out, he might not be for very much longer.

So MacLeod didn't chance the stairs. Instead he dropped down the thirty or so feet to the ground. However, even an immortal is susceptible to injury from falls from that height, so MacLeod made sure to land on the gawking gang members.

The entire scenario played out in exaggerated slow motion for Richie from his spot on the floor. He saw the person falling… falling… falling. Then he landed and strange sounds were heard as the gang members cried out. Romeo spun around in surprise.

Duncan had hit his mark and succeeded in knocking two gang members out cold with his fall. That left three, including Romeo. They abandoned Richie, and staggered away from each other preparing for the attack. Snake grabbed his baseball bat while Julio whipped out his knife.

"Mac…" Richie managed to breathe, but none heard him. Duncan saw the effort though, and that just motivated him further.

Snake attacked first, swinging his bat violently but without form or reason. The Highlander easily ducked under one blow, sidestepped another, and was able to get up under Snake's range. He caught the bat with both hands as it came at him from the side, and he held it tightly. Snake found himself jammed momentarily, but that was all the moment Duncan needed. He stomped on Snake's foot and the thug let go of the bat as he jumped back in surprise.

As soon as the Highlander had control of the weapon he flipped it into the proper grip and then swung in fiercely into Snake's stomach. Snake double over in pain and Duncan brought the bat down on his back, sending the thug crashing unconscious to the floor. Killing them, though sorely tempting, wouldn't sit with his Highland sense of honor at all, even in self defense, for he was immortal and they were mere children.

Julio came at him then with the knife, but the movements were awkward for his fear of the bat. Duncan was able to hit the knife out of his hand, probably breaking bones. When Julio brought his hand quickly and protectively against his chest, Duncan dropped the bat and punched kid in the jaw.

The sound of his fist connecting with flesh was incorrect, however. It took the Highlander a second to come to his senses and recognize the sound.

A gunshot.

Julio tumbled forward awkwardly, the force of the punch sending him backwards while the force of a bullet sent him forwards. He hit the floor and Duncan saw the blood pouring out to stain the concrete in ever-increasing circles.

In the heat of the moment, Duncan had forgotten about Romeo.

And apparently Romeo had managed to get a gun.

Duncan didn't have long to dwell on this fact, however. With Julio down, Romeo now had a clean shot. He fired once… twice… three times at Duncan, hitting him in the shoulder, chest, and abdomen.

Three times Richie saw Duncan's body shudder with the force of impact, bright crimson stains erupting on his clothes. The Highlander stumbled backwards and fell to one knee.

It was all slow motion for Richie. He saw MacLeod gunned down. The murderer murdered. He suddenly remembered Tessa's face, and his fears for her. His fear of the guilt. Survivor guilt. Helplessness guilt. The guilt of not having tried.

Tessa's face changed to Duncan's and Richie remembered what they all felt like.

He also remembered what came with that guilt. Anger is the much more powerful emotion. With it comes adrenaline, and adrenaline is what Richie needed.

Romeo had advanced on Duncan, who was leaning back, gripping at his wounds and resigning himself to the knowledge that he'd lost the fight. He would revive, and so would Richie. And then Romeo would pay dearly. But later, after the final shot that Romeo was preparing to fire.

The shot rang out loud and clear.

Duncan never felt the impact.

The Highlander snapped his eyes open to see Richie on top of Romeo, pinning him down. Richie, drugged as he was, weak and injured as he was, wasn't going to sit back and watch another murder. How he had gotten to Romeo in time he'd never know, but he made it. He threw himself into the gang-leader's back and Romeo tumbled forward, his shot missing its mark in the process. Richie was now pinning Romeo down and the two were struggling for the gun. Another shot rang out, ricocheting loudly in the ceiling.

One for Julio, three for Duncan, two in error. Now the gun was out of bullets.

Richie then managed to get the upper hand. He grabbed Romeo by the hair and slammed his head into the concrete floor. Twice and Romeo was unconscious. Twice more for good measure. The gang-leader lay unconscious with Richie sitting on his chest.

The adrenaline that served him so well was tapering off now. With his last bit of strength, he crawled off of Romeo and dragged himself, elbows and knees, the ten feet or so to where Duncan was now lying awkwardly with his knees bent underneath him.

Richie felt himself losing consciousness and he braced himself against the Highlander's chest, his hand making a soft squishing sound in the blood on MacLeod's sweater. Duncan too was losing consciousness as death was slowly stealing him. His sad eyes met Richie. Sad for having to die in front of him, and sad for not protecting him better.

Richie, propped up as he was, felt MacLeod's chest fall in a last hissing exhale and then lay still. They held eye contact until the Highlander's glazed over in death, and the realization that MacLeod was dead was the last thought Richie had before the darkness claimed him.

In the distance, there were sirens.


	13. Conclusion

Seven bodies lay in the warehouse. Of them all, Duncan was the first to revive. Quickly coming to his senses, he detected Richie's pre-immortal buzz even as he felt for a pulse. It was faint and erratic, but the sound of approaching sirens was reassuring.

Edward and Ricardo were still out cold from when Duncan had landed on them. They remained wholly oblivious to all that had happened.

Julio was dead by Romeo's first bullet.

The sad irony was that Romeo, too, had died. It wasn't by Richie's hand however, nor Duncan's. That last errant shot into the ceiling struck something in the ventilation system. The structural integrity of the system was already very poor due to use and age, and so an entire section came away. It fell on top of Romeo, crushing him. He never woke up from the sleep Richie had sent him to.

Richie was the only one left alive who had seen Duncan die.

The Highlander knew that he didn't have much time. He ran outside to the T-bird and threw his duster on, making sure to lock his Katana in the trunk of his car (one can never tell with Powell). He had just succeeded in buttoning the duster enough to conceal the massive bloodstains when the first police cruisers came into view. Duncan ran into the middle of the alley to flag them down.

Duncan rode to the hospital with Richie, making this their fourth trip there together. Once again, when Richie was wheeled away, Duncan found the payphone and called Tessa. She came to the hospital immediately, bringing with her a change of clothes for Duncan. The entire affair was all too familiar.

Duncan managed to change before Powell noticed. With his katana in the trunk of the T-bird, MacLeod hung his coat beneath Tessa's in the visitor's coatroom. Together he and Tessa sat down to wait once again.

Inevitably, Powell came to collect the Highlander's statement. In that same small waiting room, Duncan told his story. He told of how he'd left Richie in charge of the store while he went to run errands. He'd met Tessa on his way back and then they'd found the note. He told her to call for help while he went to the warehouse. Richie was incapacitated on the ground, and Duncan said that managed to subdue two of the gang members completely unaware. He then won his fights with the other two, but the last, Romeo as it turned out, pulled a gun. Duncan told Powell how Romeo had shot his own man in attempts to kill him, but the rest of Romeo's shots went wild because Richie had tackled him. In their struggle, shots were fired into the ceiling. Richie was able to subdue Romeo, but he passed out soon after. Duncan barely managed to drag him away before he was crushed by the falling piece of ventilation duct. Romeo wasn't so lucky. Then he heard the sirens and ran outside to direct the emergency crews.

Powell diligently took notes, this time being smart enough to not interject any wise comments. Then it was Tessa's turn, and her story supported Duncan's. They just had to wait for the three surviving gang members to give their side of it, and for Richie to give his.

However, Richie was still off somewhere inside the hospital, and no one in the waiting room had any ideas as to where he was or what had happened to him.

The hours ticked by as slowly as they usually do in such situations, and Duncan and Tessa tried—though mostly in vain—to wait patiently. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, the doctor came out to speak to the.

"Mr. MacLeod," the doctor greeted quietly, having recognized the man on sight. "First I'm going to say that I'm glad they finally caught the punks that did this. I'm sick and tired of seeing that kid in my ER."

"I'm tired of bringing him here," Duncan added.

The doctor nodded somberly.

"Well," Tessa prompted. "How is he?"

The doctor sighed. "Well we had to recast his arm. He took a good knock there, cracked the cast, but it didn't seem to injure him any. Probably hurt like hell though." He sighed again, trying to decide the best way to continue. "He has another slight concussion as well, but we're pretty sure there won't be any permanent damage from it. We won't know 'til he wakes up though. It's a good thing he has such a hard head." Duncan and Tessa didn't laugh, and the doctor continued. "There is one more thing though," he said. Duncan and Tessa gazed at him expectantly and the doctor sighed for the third time. "We got his tox screens back." Duncan's face paled, but Tessa looked back and forth between the two in confusion. "I'm afraid they drugged him."

"With what?" Tessa asked, angry and fearful.

"Heroin," the doctor answered. Duncan shut his eyes and Tessa gasped. "It was probably to incapacitate him. They didn't give him enough to OD. However, we're going to have to keep him here for a while and monitor his progress as the drug leaves his system. I'm warning you both now; it's not going to be a pleasant experience for him."

"How bad?" Duncan asked.

The doctor shook his head. "Hard to say, especially with his head wounds complicating things. Odds are that he'll recover fully, in time. However, we can never be sure in these cases."

Duncan sighed tiredly. Tessa clung to him tightly, both for his benefit and her own.

"Can we see him?" Duncan asked.

The doctor nodded. "Sure," he said with a tired smile. "He's unconscious now, and we've taken steps to ensure that he stays that way for quite a while." The doctor then checked his watch. "Visiting hours are over in a half an hour, and I can guarantee he won't wake up by then, but I'll take you to him anyway." The doctor turned and left the waiting room, Duncan and Tessa silently following his lead.

Richie didn't awaken that night, just as the doctor warned. He slept straight through the night and then the following day. In that time, Duncan and Tessa learned that the boy, Julio, had died from the gunshot wound to his back, and that Romeo had died instantly when the duct fell on him. Also, the three gang members in custody were singing like birds, admitting to each attack on Richie, and many other crimes. Their individual stories corroborated with MacLeod's, but by now Powell wasn't surprised any more.

All that was left was to hear Richie's side of it, and for that he would need to wake up.

Richie finally awoke the following morning. Unfortunately Duncan and Tessa hadn't arrived yet. The bigger misfortune, though, was that Powell had.

"Good morning, Dicky," the sergeant greeted with fake warmth.

"Where's Tessa?" Richie asked quickly, sitting up in bed.

Powell laughed. "Visiting hours haven't started yet," he explained. "She isn't here."

Richie closed his eyes against the sting of tears of relief. "Is she—"

"She's fine," Powell reassured. "You were tricked into going to the warehouse. She was never in any danger."

Richie sighed and opened his eyes, his composure regained. "I thought so," he said.

Powell frowned in confusion. "If you didn't think she was there then why'd you go?"

Richie turned sharply, his gaze seething. "And if I was wrong?" He asked rhetorically. Powell shrugged, not wanting to argue. Richie sighed. Anger was exhausting. "You probably want my statement," he said, resigned, after a brief pause.

"That's why I'm here, Dicky," said Powell.

"Richie," he was corrected half-heartedly.

"Right… Richie."

"So you want my story or not?" Richie asked passively. He was heavily sedated, which accounted for some of his lackluster manner. However, the bigger part was that he was still haunted by the memory of Duncan dying right there in front of him in the warehouse.

Powell flipped open his notebook and clicked his pen. "Shoot."

Richie told Powell about the phone call and how he wrote the note for Duncan. He then said about how he went to the warehouse and knocked on the side door, which they opened into him. He remembered the sharp pain in his arm, but then nothing until he woke up. He told Powell that he guessed correctly that he'd been drugged. When Powell asked about how he knew what heroin felt like Richie casually reminded him of it's relation to morphine, which he'd become quite familiar with these past few months. He told Powell about how his senses were affected, and about how he doesn't remember anything concrete until MacLeod showed up.

He told Powell that he remembered MacLeod suddenly appearing from somewhere and quickly taking down three gang members. He explained how he saw Julio get shot because he happened to be standing in front of Duncan. However, Richie then explained how he'd seen Duncan take three rounds before he was able to tackle Romeo. He told of how he knocked Romeo out and crawled over to MacLeod just in time to see him die.

Had Powell not been standing so far away, and regarding Richie so incredulously, he would have seen the tears in the teen's eyes as he finished his tale. As inappropriate as it was, the first reaction that Powell had was to laugh. Richie once again turned a hateful glare on the sergeant, but he was too tired to put much behind it.

"Kid, you were drugged," said Powell once he'd calmed down. "The smack has obviously affected your memory… that or the blow to the head." At Richie's questioning look he added: "MacLeod's not dead. Not even shot. You must have dreamed that last part, kid. I have no idea where you got that idea." With another laugh and a shake of his head, Powell turned and left Richie's hospital room, leaving one very confused and relieved teen in his wake.

He met Duncan and Tessa in the hallway.

"Is he awake?" Tessa asked, seeing the sergeant exit the room.

"Yeah, he's awake," said Powell. "But his statement's inadmissible on account of the drugs in his system at the time."

"You took his statement?" Duncan questioned angrily. "You couldn't have waited?"

Powell sighed tiredly. "Just doing my job, MacLeod." There was a tense pause that Powell decided to break himself. "You'd better get in there before he falls asleep again. And MacLeod," Duncan and Tessa turned around, having previously begun to walk away from Powell. "He thinks you're dead."

Duncan bit back a comment and nodded slowly. "Must have been the drugs," he said. Powell shrugged and nodded before turning to leave.

Duncan and Tessa exchanged a glance. He had told her the _real_ version of what had happened, but they had both hoped that he didn't remember it.

Now Richie had seen MacLeod die, and they both doubted that they would be able to brush it off as on account of the drugs. Mentally preparing themselves for what was to come, the couple pushed open the door to Richie's hospital room.

Unfortunately, the teen had fallen back asleep again.

* * *

Richie awoke to find Duncan dozing in a chair next to his bed. Richie let his eyes linger on the site for a while, letting the reality sink in. Eventually Duncan, sleeping lightly, felt Richie's gaze upon him and stirred. Their eyes met and they both smiled.

"Powell told me it was true," said Richie. His voice was hoarse. "I didn't want to believe him."

"What's true?" Duncan asked softly.

Richie shut his eyes against the sudden rush of memory. "I saw Romeo shoot you," he said. "I saw you die."

Duncan didn't say anything. Instead he stood and walked around the bed to where the food tray was. Richie's eyes followed him the whole way. There was a pitcher of water on the tray, and a plastic cup. Duncan poured Richie a glass and handed it to him. Richie accepted the cup and drank greedily before handing it back to Duncan, who replaced it on the tray.

"Did I really see that?" Richie asked. "Powell says it was the drugs."

Duncan made his way back around to his chair and reclaimed his seat. "What do you think?" He asked, his tone serious with no trace of sarcasm. That alone gave Richie his answer.

"I think I saw what I saw," he said, studying Duncan's face intently for his reaction.

"Well I'm sitting here now," Duncan said with a smile. "Alive and well."

"Powell said you weren't even hit."

Duncan nodded gravely. Then he stood and lifted his shirt to reveal the flawless and unbroken skin to Richie. Richie stared in amazement before it occurred to him that he was doing so. He somehow managed to resist the urge to touch the Highlander's chest to prove that it wasn't an illusion. Duncan lowered his shirt and sat back down.

"How?" Richie asked after considerable pause.

Duncan smiled slightly and shrugged.

Richie yawned, his fatigue already catching up with him. He hated the fuzzy and detached feeling he had whenever he was awake, but it beat the withdrawal pains he'd otherwise be having now.

"It's a long story," Duncan spoke at last, once Richie recovered from his yawning fit. However, the teen's eyelids were beginning to droop.

"Promise you'll tell me when we get home?" He asked, suddenly sounding very childlike as he shifted into a more comfortable position in the bed.

"Aye, lad," Duncan answered, his brogue tinting the voice he used, choked as it was by sudden emotion.

Richie smiled weakly before once again succumbing to darkness.

Duncan stood and tucked the covers better around Richie, pulling them up to the teen's chin. He brushed a few errant curls away from Richie's face, letting his hand linger slightly longer than necessary, before sitting back down in the chair to wait for Tessa to return with takeout.

The two had a lot to discuss.

* * *

Richie spent the next three days drifting in and out of consciousness, which was actually an induced and much preferred state as the last of the drugs left his system. Duncan and Tessa visited him often, but mostly he was unaware of them. Or, if he was awake, he wouldn't remember their visit the next time he saw them. Mostly it was just a comfort to know that they were there. A comfort for whom, however…

By the fourth day Richie was more like himself again, and it was decided that on the fifth he would be fit enough to be released from the hospital, once again into the trusted care of Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel.

So of course, Duncan waited until the night before to have that serious chat with her.

"Do you think we can manage to keep him out of the hospital this time?" Tessa asked with casual teasing as she began folding the load of laundry she'd just done. With a sigh and a half shrug Duncan began fishing through the basket to begin matching the socks.

"What's this _we_, young lady?" He asked with mock seriousness. "As I recall, you're the only one of us who's sent him to the hospital."

"Ha!" Tessa thumped him with a towel.

"What was that for!" Duncan asked, smiling and feigning confusion. "The first time he was stabbed, the second time you hit him, the third time his apartment blew up, and this last time he was drugged. That's three of four to that awful gang, and one to you. You don't need to assault me with inanimate objects just because you feel guilty."

"It was a towel!" Tessa wasn't mad because Duncan was right, she was mad at the jokingly condescending tone of voice he used because, when coupled with his big, brown, puppy-dog eyes, not even _that_ could make her stay mad at him for long.

"And besides," she said, calming down, "he would have had to go to the hospital anyway, even if I hadn't aggravated his infection—which he _already had_."

Duncan laughed at her insistent expression. The slight tension hung between them for a brief moment before he flung a matched pair of socks at her. She shrieked and dodged and Duncan nearly died laughing.

"What was that for!"

"Retaliation for the towel."

"Oh, you…"

Pretty soon the laundry was strewn about the floor, much of it to be rewashed later, in the aftermath of a childish clothing-turned pillow fight. Much later, because two lovers cannot play-fight on their bed and lust leave things as they lie. Certainly not lovers like Duncan and Tessa.

Later that afternoon, as they lounged in each other's arms and surveyed the utter wreck they had made of their bedroom, Duncan's thoughts returned to the cause of their banter: Richie. He also realized that their love life had been lacking this kind of playful energy as of late. And the reason was Richie. Richie was on his mind, there was no denying the fact, and with good reason. So, he might as well get it over with.

"Tess?"

"Mmm?"

"About Richie."

His lover sighed next to him. "What about him?" She asked carefully.

"I think I need to tell him the truth."

Tessa sat up partially and looked down at him intently. "What truth? You mean about your immortality?" Duncan nodded. "But, why? Duncan?"

The Highlander sighed. "He saw me die, Tess."

"But Powell explained to him that it was the drugs that made him think that."

"I'm not sure he believes him," said Duncan, his opinion of Powell showing through.

"But it's a plausible explanation, Duncan," Tessa insisted. "The doctors said so."

Duncan nodded. "It is," he agreed. "And Richie might have believed it."

"But?"

Duncan sighed again. "But he was there at Soldier's Bridge, Tess. Remember? He saw the swordfights. He saw Connor die and then revive, and he saw me kill Slan, and take a quickening."

Tessa nodded. She hadn't forgotten. "But I thought you told me you had talked to him?"

Duncan laughed suddenly, but it died just as quickly. "Yeah, we talked," he agreed almost ruefully. "I told him some cock and bull story about being in the SCA to explain why everyone carries swords and knows how to use them, and I got him to accept that I killed Slan to avenge Connor, but really that we fought in self defense, and that I discovered Connor alive when I dove for his body. I didn't explain why I didn't involve the police, but a kid like Richie knows better than to ask that. And I didn't explain about the quickening, either."

"So you're saying that he doesn't believe the lie about the drugs because of everything else he's seen?" Tessa asked, but she already suspected the answer.

Duncan shrugged. "Richie's a bright boy. And right now, he's a bright boy with a lot of unanswered questions."

"And you think the only way to answer them is with the truth? Duncan, you told me once, right after you told me your secret, that it can be dangerous for someone to know the truth about you."

"The last time Richie was curious, he followed Connor, and it lead him to Soldier's Bridge. What if Slan had won, and caught him snooping? At least, if he knows the truth, he'll realize the danger, and he'll be able to recognize the warning signs and know what to do."

"What do you mean, know what to do?" Tessa asked, confused. "You think he's just going to run into another immortal on the street?"

Duncan knew that the odds of that happening were very real. Many headhunters kill pre-immortals and then take their heads as soon as they revive. Of course, he couldn't tell Tessa that.

"He works here, Tess. What if an immortal came by the store, to buy a sword, or worse? He should know about holy ground, at least."

Tessa nodded. That last part, at least, made sense. If Richie was going to be working in their store, then if, God-forbid, Duncan tells them both to run, he won't question when Tessa heads straight for St. Michael's down the street.

"That's true," she acquiesced. "But, Duncan… I didn't mean just dangerous for him."

Duncan finally sat up and, being on equal levels with Tessa, looked her straight in the eye.

"Do you think he would betray me?"

Tessa blinked slowly, fighting tears, and looked away. "When Connor drove me to the island," she began, "he told me of all the things immortals do, to gain against their opponents. He told me what happened to Heather."

Duncan clenched his teeth and silently cursed his kinsman. He knew that Connor had just wanted to be sure that Tessa was sure; it would save a lot of hurt in the long run. But still…

"She made a choice, to stay with him until she died, because she loved him. That's the choice that I've made. The choice to be with you. But…"

"But how could I trust someone with my secret that I wasn't going to love for the rest of their natural life?"

Tessa nodded slightly, still averting her eyes for the shame of her question.

"Tess, I told you about my immortality because I love you so much that I didn't want there to ever be any secrets between us. I wanted to see if you could love—I don't know… the real me. All four hundred years of it. You are the first woman to ever love me for who I truly am, not for whom and what I convince the world I am." Duncan gently cupped her chin and brought her face up so that she was force to look him in the eyes. "I love you, Tessa. More than anything else in the world. And my reasons for wanting to tell Richie have nothing to do with my reasons for wanting to trust in you." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and then they enveloped each other in an embrace that lasted for many minutes.

"Tell me," she said finally without pulling away. "Tell me why you trust him."

Once again Duncan wanted to tell her about Richie's impending immortality. If she knew then she wouldn't question his decision to trust Richie. However, he couldn't have her treating him any differently. Richie needed a nice, normal life for as long as he could possibly have one, because once an immortal enters the game, that's all the normal they can ever have.

Unfortunately, Duncan took too long while pondering these things. Tessa pulled away and looked him in the eye.

"Duncan," she said seriously. "If he knows about your immortality, he could let it slip to others, and that would be dangerous for you. I need to know why you trust him, Duncan. Please."

The highlander sighed, trying to settle on an answer. "When I found him in the warehouse, right before the fighting started, we shared a glance. I saw something in his eyes. He trusted me to make everything better. It was as though, now that I was there, everything was going to be all right." Duncan laughed slightly. "I think he thought me invincible or something." Tessa nodded, seeing how her lover could have that effect on people, but waited patiently for him to continue.

"Then… I got shot. That kid, Romeo, shot me, but I hadn't died yet. You know the report: Richie, drugged as he was, tackled the kid and nearly fractured his skull… Tess, he was most definitely out of it, but he still knew that I was dying. He crawled over to me… You didn't see his face as he watched me die…"

"But he knows you're alive Duncan," said Tessa, forcing her voice past the lump in her throat. She needed to be sure that he was sure, or else she wouldn't allow it. She couldn't. "You did make everything all right."

"Yeah," Duncan agreed, his thoughts suddenly far away. After a few moments he blinked back to the present, his resolve set. "Look, Tess, I don't know how to explain it so that you'll understand. But Richie deserves to know. After all that's happened, after all he's seen and all he's been through because of my immortality, I can't not tell him. When he comes home, he's going to have questions, and I can't look him in the eye and lie to him. Not anymore."

Tessa nodded gravely. She accepted Duncan's explanation, and therefore, she had to go along with his decision. She only hoped that it was the right decision to make.

"Then tell him," Tessa said at last, forcing a ghost of a smile to her face.

Duncan knew what an admission this was on her part, and suddenly drew her into a tight embrace. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart," he said into her hair as he kissed her.

"Don't thank me yet, Duncan," she said as she felt her body begin to give in to his ministrations. The rest of that thought remained unsaid.

* * *

They brought Richie home the next afternoon. He remained awake just long enough for them to steer him into his bedroom. There he slept straight through to the following morning. Tessa had an early appointment with the Bicentennial Committee, so it was just Duncan and Richie, and the Highlander intended to use the time wisely.

He started with omelets.

"Are you glad to be out of the hospital?" Duncan asked as he slid his breakfast creation off the skillet and onto Richie's plate.

The teen looked up and made like he was going to say something, but then his look suddenly switched to one of confusion. "How many times have you asked me that?" He asked, the question genuine.

Duncan shrugged with a half-smile. "Too many," he answered.

"Yeah," Richie agreed. "But how many?"

Duncan's face grew serious. "Just once is too many."

Richie nodded gravely before taking a sip of his orange juice. "Where's Tessa?" He asked suddenly.

"She's meeting with the Bicentennial Committee about her sculpture," said Duncan, sitting down in the seat across from Richie. He had a steak knife next to his plate, but he was only eating with his fork. "Listen, Richie…" The teen looked up expectantly, but was thrown by the unreadable expression on the Highlander's face. "We need to talk."

Richie froze, his fork laden with eggs midway to his mouth. He was afraid of what Duncan was going to say next. Was he going to talk about his tendency to get injured (as so many authority figures had done), what had happened at the warehouse (because his nightmares didn't mesh with his waking memories nor with the police reports), or about the living arrangements (which were currently undefined).

He swallowed thickly. "About?"

"What do you remember from the warehouse?"

Option number two. Richie slowly put his fork down, trying to decide the best way to answer this.

"I woke up drugged, then you showed up, kicked ass and saved the day. Julio and Romeo died, the rest were arrested. I wound up in the hospital again. What else is there to tell?"

"You could start with what you remember."

Richie shut his eyes and looked quickly away. The images were all a jumble. He remembered his nightmares, and he knew what Powell told him. He also knew what logically is and is not possible. But then, this _is_ MacLeod…

"I remember you fell," Richie said at last, the surrealistic and slow-motion imagery of Duncan crashing to the floor permanently etched into his mind. Of course, no one could fall that far without breaking bones, but then, his fall _was_ broken…

Duncan was unsure how to interpret this. "Fell?"

Richie nodded. "From the sky," he continued. "You landed on Edward and Ricardo, like something out of a comic book."

Duncan nodded, admitting to this fact. It was also an indication for Richie to continue.

"Those two were out cold," Richie added.

"But?"

Then he shrugged. This is where the images start to disconnect. "But Snake, Julio, and Romeo were still standing," he said at last. Duncan saw the teen's face contort into different shades of remembrance and concentration. He gave him all the time he needed. "I don't remember what happened to Snake," he said at last. "I know he got arrested, but…"

"He attacked me with the baseball bat," Duncan reminded him.

Richie paused a moment, and then nodded. "And then you took it away from him?" This time it was Duncan's turn to nod. "I remember… You dropped him fast and easy." There was another pause. Duncan knew that Richie was trying to decide how to continue. The only ones left to talk about were Julio and Romeo, and both of them were dead.

"What else?" Duncan prompted, not wanting Richie to leave it there. The events themselves were traumatic enough to warrant the need for open discussion, let alone the _other_ reasons for this conversation.

"Romeo had a gun," Richie said evenly. "Romeo always had one. It belonged to his old man. He never used it, except shooting at old beer cans in the ally behind the hangout." Richie laughed suddenly. "You know, I don't ever remember him being a good shot? That's why he hardly ever carried the gun with him. That and cuz his old man used in to knock over a few liquor stores so it's traceable."

Duncan nodded. "He brought his gun to the warehouse," he said, trying once again to steer the conversation to where it needed to go.

"He would have," Richie agreed. "After what happened at my apartment, they knew the cops would be watching the hangout, so they had to move. They use the warehouses when they need to lie low for a while."

"So Romeo had his gun," Duncan reiterated.

Richie shut his eyes, the images suddenly coming in a tumbling rush, too fast for him to sort through. He blinked rapidly and looked away, trying to clear them from his vision.

"Julio's dead," he said at last, and even though he wasn't looking for confirmation Duncan nodded anyway.

"Romeo shot him."

"Yeah… He shot him…" The images would not be denied. Richie couldn't shut them out and nor could he make sense of them. They seemed to flash in and out in any order they so chose, almost like watching a slideshow through a strobe light, only there were pieces missing and rearranged. Richie couldn't focus on any one piece long enough for anything to make sense…

Until suddenly it all snapped into place. Suddenly the right tumblers clicked and the mosaic took shape for what it's supposed to be. The projector in Richie's mind finally shifted into the correct gear. Images upon images came flying at him, one right after another. He saw it all, in bright, stunning slow motion, exactly the way it happened.

"Romeo shot him!" Richie said with sudden vehemence. He stood up just as suddenly and seemed to pace in a quick circle behind his chair. "He shot him, but he didn't mean to. He wasn't aiming for Julio!" Richie turned and bore a fiery gaze down upon the Highlander from across the table. "He was aiming for you, Mac. Julio just… got in the way."

Duncan nodded again, gravely and with guilt. "What else?" He persisted, not letting Richie let go of the memory. Richie renewed his pacing. "Richie?"

"I don't know!" The teen shouted.

"Yes you do."

"No I don't!"

"You remember," Duncan persisted, standing now. "Romeo shot Julio and then what? What happened next?"

Richie suddenly grabbed his temples. He moaned, more from frustration than from pain. "It doesn't make any sense!"

"What doesn't make sense?"

"You!"

Stunned silence fell as Richie didn't know what to say next. He just stood there, breathing heavily, staring across the table at MacLeod, whose expression was unreadable.

"What doesn't make sense?" Duncan asked again, calmly.

Richie took a few deep, shuddering breaths. He knew what saw. He knew it because his nightmares told him so. Every time he'd wake up screaming in the hospital and the nurses would sedate him and send him right back into the warehouse again. Every time they'd say it was the drugs in his system making him see things and feel things that weren't real, things that stole his memories and replaced them with nightmare images. Richie had memories, and Richie had nightmares. And now he knew that there was no difference between them. When he awoke in cold sweats from having seen the things he'd seen he'd been able to reassure himself that it wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. MacLeod was standing not five feet away from him. It couldn't have been real.

But it was. It had really happened. He was sure of it now.

"What are you, MacLeod?" Richie asked at last. He wasn't afraid, nor was he overly curious. To the Highlander, he just sounded tired.

That's when Duncan picked up the steak knife.

"I am immortal."

Faster than Richie could see, Duncan dragged the steak knife across the soft flesh of his forearm, just above the treacherous veins in his wrist. Richie's eyes went wide as the red stripe appeared and ruby droplets trickled down and, as though commanded, pooled in the palm of his hand. Before Richie could offer comment, however, the blue sparks of Duncan's quickening laced up and down along the incision, sealing it instantly. When the show was over, Duncan wiped away the blood with a napkin and showed the unbroken skin to Richie.

"Romeo did shoot you," said Richie with quiet triumph, and Duncan nodded. "And before, with your sword, I cut you, didn't I."

Duncan nodded again. "I was born Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, in the highlands of Scotland four hundred years ago."

"You're four hundred years old?"

Duncan nodded for the third time. Richie paused to process this information.

"Immortals don't get grey hair?"

Duncan laughed. "We don't age after our first death," he explained.

"First death?"

"Immortals live just like everyone else, until they die. Then we wake up, and it's as if we never died in the first place. After that, we're immortal. We don't grow older, and we don't die permanently. We revive."

"So, when I saw you die," said Richie tentatively, "I must have passed out before you… woke up?"

Duncan nodded yet again.

Richie sat down again. "So you live forever?"

"Almost," said Duncan, also sitting. Richie returned his gaze to the Highlander. "There is one way we can be killed."

"Decapitation," said Richie. It wasn't a question.

"We—immortals, we don't know for certain why we exist, or what caused each of us to be immortal. But we live in what we call 'the game,' and this game has rules. The most important one is this: in the end, there can be only one."

This time Richie nodded. He was leaning his head into his hands, his fingers gently massaging his temples as though that would make his brain process the information more smoothly.

"So you hunt each other with swords and cut each other's heads off," he deduced. "Like you and your cousin and the masked man on the bridge that night." Then he laughed suddenly. "That was an amusing lie you told me, though."

"Richie…"

"So who's your cousin?" Richie interjected suddenly. "I'll bet you're not really related."

"Actually," said Duncan. "Connor MacLeod technically is my kinsman, but he's a good seventy five or so years older than I am. He was my teacher."

"Teacher?"

"Well, I died in battle, and then woke up like nothing had happened. I didn't know about immortals or the game, let alone that I was one. Connor found me and taught me what I needed to know to survive."

This time Richie nodded. "So, when you said that Slan came looking to kill you, he was just playing the game?"

"Technically yes," Duncan admitted.

"And when you killed him, it was just part of the game," Richie furthered.

Duncan wasn't sure he liked the implications. "Yes, but Slan had threatened Tessa. He would have come after her if I didn't agree to fight him."

"What was your cousin doing, then?"

Duncan laughed slightly. "Well, as I said before, he likes to protect me. Teachers get that way about students; it's kind of an occupational hazard."

"So he fought to protect you, you fought to protect Tessa, and Slan fought because he was playing the game."

"Essentially," Duncan agreed.

"So, what's so great about this game then? Why do you play?"

Duncan sighed. "I'm not really sure, to tell you the truth. There's a prize for the winner, for the last immortal, but none of us are really sure what it is. Some claim that it's the power and ability to rule the world; others claim that you get your mortality back. There's a lot of speculation but that's about it. Some of us are fighting for a shot at the prize, but most of us are just fighting to stay alive a while longer."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember the lightning on Soldier's Bridge?" Richie nodded. "That was Slan's quickening. You saw my quickening just now: it was what healed my arm. When one immortal kills another, we absorb their quickening into our own. We get their memories, their power, their abilities, and their knowledge, in bits and pieces. The older you are, and the more heads you've taken, the more powerful your quickening becomes. Many immortals hunt just to collect them."

"Immortals like Slan?"

"Yes, but he was also into the sadistic pleasures of killing in general."

A lengthy pause ensued. Richie appeared to be lost amongst his own thoughts, and Duncan was almost afraid to disturb him there.

"You could have just let me believe that the drugs made me think I saw you die," he said at last. "It was as good an explanation as any. Why'd you tell me the truth?"

"Do you wish I hadn't?"

Richie was about to say something, but suddenly thought better of whatever it was.

"It's, like, a heavy duty secret," he said instead. "It's like, Bruce Wayne telling people he's Batman. Only Alfred knows."

"And you and Tessa are the only mortals who know about me," Duncan added.

"Well, I get why you told Tessa," said Richie. "But, why tell me?" Richie's words said one thing, but his eyes said another. Aside from still being slightly in shock from all that has happened, he really wanted to know why MacLeod chose to trust him. Sure, he figured that he'd earned the man's trust enough that he could live in their loft and work in their store with no worries, but a secret like this… There were bound to be implications beyond what MacLeod had said.

"I'm not going to make light of this, Richie," MacLeod said at last. "It would be dangerous for immortals if the public were to know about us. I've lived through witch hunts before, they aren't pretty. The survival of our race depends on its secrecy, especially since we don't know the final fate of the winner of the game. It's very important that you keep this secret, Richie, but I feel that I can trust you with it. Please don't prove me wrong."

"You can trust me, Mac. I won't let you down," Richie pledged in all seriousness.

Duncan sighed. Of course, there was more to tell.

"But you asked me why I trust you," he continued. He paused long enough to hold Richie's eye contact before continuing. "I won't explain why I trust you, it's more of a feeling than anything else, but I will explain why I told you. You see, Richie, if you're going to be living and working here, another immortal, one like Slan, might show up looking for me. As dangerous as it is for immortals when mortals know about us, it can be dangerous for mortals when they associate with immortals." Duncan paused to let that statement sink in.

"So I could be used against you, like Tessa was by Slan?" Richie asked.

Duncan nodded seriously. The two sat in silence for many minutes, Richie pondering over everything he'd just learned, and Duncan was content to let him be. Finally it seemed as though Richie came to some sort of conclusion, because when he looked back to Duncan, his eyes were clear and decisive.

"So my knowing makes things dangerous for you, but I need to know because my being here makes things dangerous for me," Richie said finally, summing everything up.

"That's one way of putting it," said Duncan. "But I feel like I can trust you Richie. You're still an employee, and you can live here for as long as you need to."

"Thanks, Mac," said Richie with a smile.

"What are friends for?"

Richie blinked. "F-friends?"

"Yeah, you know, people you care about, people you hang out with, get into life and death situations with, and tell life-changing secrets to. You know, _friends_?"

Richie blushed almost to match the ketchup on his now-cold omelet. "Thanks Mac," he said quietly.

"Don't sound so surprised," said Duncan. "When it comes to revealing my immortality, only my good friends are worth the risk." Richie blushed again. "To tell you the truth, I'm actually relieved that you still want the job, and are willing to let Tessa and I help you until you're back on your feet again."

"What do you mean?" Richie asked, genuinely curious. It seemed as though the earlier heaviness of mood had faded slightly in the wake of the almost cathartic experience of their conversation.

"Well, I haven't shown my immortality to many, but I have shown some. And I've heard stories from other immortals that have done the same. You took it… rather well. Especially the part where I told you your life could be in danger if you stayed here."

"Well," said Richie, "maybe I think you're worth the risk."

There was a brief pause before they both started laughing, Duncan because Richie effectively stole his line, and Richie at the look on the Highlander's face, which was briefly one of confusion before being one of immense relief.

"These are cold," Duncan said at last, gesturing to their plates. "I should probably make some more."

"Yeah, I think so," Richie agreed, still laughing.

Duncan stood and collected their plates and redirected his energies towards making another breakfast for them. They still had a lot to discuss. Richie needed to know about holy ground, for one thing, and they needed to come up with some sort of plan for his living arrangements. But such things could wait for now. Indeed, Richie had potentially hundreds of years to worry about holy ground and other aspects about immortal life. But Duncan didn't have to worry about that now, because he more sure than ever that he would definitely be able to worry about it later. He and Richie were friends, and there was trust between them. That meant that the Highlander had staked a claim to being Richie's teacher when the time came, hopefully many, many, many years from now. And that is what he had wanted from the beginning. That's what all of his efforts this far had been striving towards.

And now his future student was sitting at his kitchen table, patiently waiting for more eggs. Duncan sighed a contented sigh. There were still headhunters around every corner, or more like Romeo that he couldn't predict or protect against, and countless other worries out there in the world they lived in. But for right now, Duncan, in his kitchen, waiting for his lover to return from her meeting, while he cooked breakfast for his employee, friend, and future student, after they had both happily accepted the risks of being in each other's lives, couldn't have cared less about the evil lurking outside their door. For right now, life was good, and the sudden realization that they were out of cheese the only worry.

"Uh, Richie…"

_Fin_


End file.
